Fugue
by LouiseKurylo
Summary: A tough four days. Main focus is Jane's POV, but alternate chapters will be from Lisbon's POV. / I do not own The Mentalist and reap no economic benefits from this story.
1. Chapter 1 - J POV: Awakening

**Chapter 1: Awakening**

A/N: Dialog marked with an asterisk ("*") is directly quoted from The Mentalist Fugue in Red episode.

Cold. Roiling, foul, inky water. Thrashing, lungs bursting, desperate. He jerked awake with a gasp and looked around wildly.

"Take it easy, Mr. Jane. You're safe now." Soft voice, soft hands. His panicked panting eased, his racing heart slowed. "You've been through a lot, sir. Lie back. It's okay." Vision blurry, he drew comfort from bland colors and a faint antiseptic smell almost masking mildew. The sheer disconnect from his nightmare lent relief.

He shuddered, head to foot, struck by an icy chill and echoes of terror. The same hands pulled a blanket to his chin and tucked it around his shoulders. Exhausted, he sank back, muscles lax, limbs leaden.

He woke again, now merely scared, fractionally refreshed, to a man's voice. "Mr. Jane, can you hear me? Open your eyes if you hear me."

Jane's eyelids fluttered open, even as another shudder cut through him. He blinked as a light flashed first in one eye, then the other. He shook his head a little to clear thoughts and vision. Blurry faces sharpened as he slowly focused. Finally, "Yeah?"

Slowly with exaggerated enunciation, "I'm Doctor Patterson. You're in the Sacramento General Hospital trauma center. How do you feel?"

"Like I swallowed a cat ... after being hit by a truck," he mumbled, resisting the temptation to insult the moronically slow speaker. "Freezing." He couldn't stop shivering. "What happened?" A woman – _nurse?_ – offered him a straw. Hot tea warmed him, wetting and scalding his raw throat.

Calmly, deliberately, "You were attacked and almost drowned. You were rescued by a cop. The EMT's resuscitated you–"

Jane frowned and interrupted, "-Resuscitated? I was–"

"They restored pulse and breathing." He paused a beat for Jane to take that in. "I'm going to ask some questions. Your name is?"

"Patrick Jane." No hesitation.

"Do you know where you are?" The doctor looked down, typing on a device Jane had never seen before.

 _Computer? Should be ten times larger._ "You said Sacramento General. Sacramento, California I presume." Irritation flashed across his face. The doctor missed it as he looked down at the device.

"What's seven times seven?"

"Forty-nine." Tiring of idiotic questions, "And the cube is 343."

The doctor looked at him.

Jane read surprised approval, no hint of annoyance. That was disquieting. _Should be offended, unless-_

"What's the date?"

"October 12th–" Patterson started keying, "–2000," then looked up sharply.

"Why'd you stop?"

The doctor pursed his lips unconsciously. "What do you remember before you almost drowned?"

Frowning now, "I – I was, uh, performing at a club. In ... Nevada." Worry began poisoning his certainty.

"Who is President of the United States?"

"Bill Clinton." He snorted, "For better or worse," with a smirk. The nurse glanced at the doctor. "What's wrong? I–"

Soothingly, "Mr. Jane, relax. You've been through a traumatic event. It's not uncommon for memory to be a bit scrambled." Jane swallowed uncomfortably. "I'm going to ask a colleague to speak with you to get a better handle on your situation."

He frowned in earnest. "Stop the BS, doc. I feel fine."

The doctor nodded, acknowledging his statement without agreeing. "I'll have Dr. Miller talk with you shortly." Now professionally positive, "Physically you are in perfect health. Ask a nurse if you need anything." He left quickly before Jane could say more.

"I'm Laura, your nurse. The hot tea will help," she said, noticing his intermittent shivering. "If you feel up to it, I can get you a snack."

 _'Physically.'_ He belatedly registered the nurse's offer. "Um, not hungry but coffee would be great," he answered with a reflexive smile. She almost dropped her pen and he masked his amusement. "My clothes?" he asked, plucking at the hospital gown.

"The doctors will probably admit you for observation. I'm not sure where your clothes are but they'd be soaked. Maybe your colleagues can bring fresh ones tomorrow."

Voice better now, he purred, "Or maybe you could find something for me. –A favor for your nearly drowned patient?" He flashed another smile and reaped the confused blush he expected. He was sure she'd dig up clothes if he pressed. Smoothly, "Thank you, Laura. You're an angel." She left, glancing over her shoulder till the privacy curtain blocked sight.

Jane was relieved he could drop the act. _Colleagues?! What?_ He settled back onto the bed, energy suddenly gone. _Food and a bed. Could be worse."_ He took stock. _Chest hurts, but –_ he drew a breath _– no cracked ribs. Not beat up, so not some thug expressing his opinion with fists... What's with my memory? Why would they lie..._ His lips twitched at the irony and then he let it go, too tired to pursue it. He sipped the tea, grateful for the warmth despite the taste.

He had almost drifted off when Dr. Miller arrived. "Neurology" was embroidered on his white lab coat. Miller ran through similar questions. Growing worry warred with irritation. Desperate to know, Jane first tolerated the tedious process and then got caught up figuring out what the questions were designed to detect. At last Miller finished, Jane so weary he almost dropped off in mid-answer.

"Mr. Jane, before you came to we did x-rays and MRI's to rule out cranial trauma. You are perfectly healthy physically."

Ignoring whatever an 'mri' was, "Yeah, you all keep saying that. _But?"_ Jane prompted sharply.

"But you have been through a traumatic event."

Cheeky, "Couldn't be that bad since I'm okay."

Now it was Miller's turn for a pointed glance. "Nearly dying qualifies as traumatic. Your brain is protecting itself by not remembering."

Taken aback, "So what? What's next?"

"Your condition is called dissociative fugue - the temporary loss of personal identity.* There is no specific treatment. Your memories will return over time–"

"-How much time?"

"–Usually days or weeks. Rarely, months or even years."

"Years..." Jane echoed, floored ... _if I believe it._

"That's rare. Memory recovery tends to be faster surrounded by people and places from your present life."

Intensely, " _What year is it?_ "

Miller paused, then chose to answer. "2010."

Jane closed his eyes. When he looked at the doctor his face was perfectly composed, expressionless. "Thanks, doc." He sat up. "Well, since there's nothing modern medicine can do, I guess I should be going. –I, uh, am not sure how much I owe, but if you direct me to–"

The doctor lightly rested his hand on Jane's shoulder. "Mr. Jane, it's 10 p.m. My best medical advice is that you be admitted and stay here through the night. We can double check your memory tomorrow. –And let your colleagues help you. No matter how ... independent you are, this is a good time to accept a helping hand." Jane slowly leaned back. "The last thing you should worry about is bills. Your insurance will cover it. Line of duty and all." Miller waited patiently.

Jane finally nodded.

"Good. Staff will arrange your admission. I'll check on you tomorrow morning." He left.

A flurry of activity commenced a few minutes later. His bed was wheeled to an elevator to go to another floor. He was settled in a private room, his clothes hung in a closet. Eventually everyone left. Motion sensors automatically dimmed the lights with the lack of activity.

With silence came time to absorb and reflect. Jane lay, eyes closed, working hard to control breathing, heartbeat and racing thoughts. _Insurance and 'line of duty'_ made no sense, but then nothing was making much sense. The tremors that periodically shook him now arose from fear as much as chill. _What if I really did lose a chunk of time? Ten years?!_

He ran his hand through damp hair. He listened, heard no footsteps or other signs of people. He flipped the sheet off and slipped out of bed, hunching his shoulders at the cold air and floor, mentally cursing the loathed open-back hospital gown. Lights automatically brightened at his movement. He made a slow circuit of the room. No calendar, no newspaper. He left the tv off since he wasn't sure he could mute it before attracting attention. His breath caught as he noticed the manufacturer's label on a piece of equipment. The "12-2009" looked like a date but wasn't definitive. The closet contained his clothes which were dripping all over the tiled floor. He propped up his shoes to help them dry and left the door ajar. Next he checked the lower right of a pre-printed medical form, knowing they were often dated to keep track of revisions. His breath caught again: "06-12-08." The calibration record for some unidentified machine was definitive. Dates were recorded each month from 2008 to 2010. In ink. In different handwriting. Stunned, acutely anxious, Jane relieved himself in the spartan bathroom then crawled back in bed.

He felt sucker punched. _I am fucked. Don't know who tried to drown me, might not even recognize him! A carny? Who? P.o.'d mark? I've – damn, I_ think _– I've been doing bar shows but no one takes that seriously enough for murder._ He checked his knuckles, slightly comforted at the lack of scrapes and bruises. _Either not a fight or I was ambushed. -_ _What_ have _I been doing for three-thousand-six-hundred-and-fifty-odd days?_

Jane absently rubbed his left ring finger and looked down. Gold wedding band. _How does that figure in, what's the play? Damn._ He was exhausted. His head hurt from too much on his mind, from _everything_ on his mind. _Can I still do my act? What if I–_

He shifted in bed, deliberately interrupting his thoughts and flexing his shoulders to relieve the tension. _Stop it, Paddy._ He took a deep breath, exhaled, slowed down. _It's okay. Feel okay, read them just fine. Not good I can't remember. So what? Life goes on and I'll figure it out._ Nothing's changed. _My old man isn't around so I'm not involved in his lame schemes. Just make my way as usual._ He huffed. _Maybe staying the night is a good idea. People around, some protection._ He sighed, decided. _Tackle it in the morning._

Thoughts under control at last, Patrick Jane succumbed to exhaustion, drained physically, mentally, and emotionally. He managed to drift, not thinking. Warmth gradually seeped back. Despite feeling like someone – EMT's? – had pounded his chest, the tightness loosened as his anxiety abated. He'd just become calm enough that he might sleep when the door opened.

"Jane?"


	2. Chapter 2 - L POV: Rescue

**Chapter 2: Rescue**

A/N: Dialog marked with an asterisk ("*") is directly quoted from The Mentalist Fugue in Red episode.

The slight, black-clad woman sat shivering in the drafty waiting room of SacGeneral's trauma center. It was almost empty. Teresa Lisbon didn't notice. She looked down, thinking how the synthetic fabric of her pants was damn near indestructible. Blood washed right out. The wet fabric plastered uncomfortably to her skin would dry without wrinkles if she sat long enough.

 _Tap ... tap ... tap ... tap ..._

She looked around. Her jacket dripped dirty pond water on the tile floor. Her hands fisted as she instantly was back at that damnable nature area.

"Jane? ... Jane, you out here? ... Jane, come on!"

 _I was annoyed. Nighttime and he wanders off when we're trying to wrap up. Deserted, pitch black, trees blocking the moonlight. We hadn't secured the area! Policing 101 and I screw up by letting him go. Alone. Goddammit, Jane._

She caught sight of – something – floating on the moonlit pond. A log?

"No!" Her heart stopped and body turned to ice. Jane! Motionless. Half-submerged. She plunged into icy, waist-deep water. Reaching him with a few great lunges she wrapped her arm around his chest and pulled him toward shore.

Screaming, "Paramedics! I need help now! Please!"

 _Not breathing, no pulse. He looked dead. I saw their faces when I said how long he'd been out there. Jesus, then the shocks. Nothing. Nothing again! God, I'll do anything, just let him live. Please, please, I can quit, make Jane quit, he can't die not like this, it's not even Red John just some stupid routine case and hasn't he paid over and over, deserve a chance? God have mercy!_ _Please_ _._

A strong, compact Asian man sat down next to her. He put a styrofoam cup on the table to her right.

"Lisbon."

She looked over, mentally back in the waiting room again. "Cho. Status?" Her hands were stiff from being clenched. She flexed her right hand, pried the lid from the cup and gratefully sipped the hot coffee. She nodded her thanks.

"Paul Satterfield was murdered at shift-change. We interviewed the 20 firemen and EMT's from both shifts. Van Pelt said tomorrow she can use that new software to track movements for each of the 20 based on the interviews. So far as we can tell, no one unaffiliated with the firehouse was around–"

"Except possibly the murderer."

He nodded. "It's a possibility. But with 20 firemen trucking around we're unlikely to salvage any evidence. Rigs and Van Pelt stayed to finish up." He waited a moment in case she wanted more detail.

Tiredly, "We'll pick it up tomorrow."

"How is he?"

She shook her head, affect flat from emotional exhaustion. "Haven't heard anything yet."

Somehow his impassive face communicated compassion and concern. "I'll stay."

She shook her head. "Nothing you can do. I'll call you three once I know something. I have his medical power of attorney so they'll talk to me."

Cho started to speak twice but didn't. His Ranger experience cured him of empty platitudes. Not about something like this. He stood. "Sure?"

"Go home, Cho. You'll know soon as I do."

He squeezed her shoulder in comfort – flagrant emotion for him – and left.

Lisbon finished her coffee. Her chair now sat in a puddle from her pants, jacket, and the plastic bag at her feet.

The EMT's were ready to leave when she had arrived. One of them handed her a black plastic bag from the ambulance: Jane's clothes. They'd stripped off his wet clothes on the way to SacGeneral – standard procedure when there was risk of hypothermia.

She rose tiredly and took jacket and bag with her to the women's room. After using the facilities she squeezed as much water as possible from her jacket. It still smelled like pond scum. She'd wash it when she got home. She considered the bag with Jane's clothes. The team had just gotten back from an out-of-town case and Jane hadn't returned his go-bag to her CBI SUV yet. After a moment, she dumped Jane's clothes into the washroom sink. After removing his wallet and other paraphernalia she rinsed them till the water ran clear, then squeezed them as dry as possible. She turned the bag inside out and put the rinsed clothes inside. He'd need something to wear when he left. _Let him be okay so he can go home tonight._

Waiting was torture. Vicious "what if's" battered her defenses, wore her down. The most final, the non-negotiable one was death. Thanks to the EMT's he likely had cheated death. The one that lurked at the edges of her mind, that came screaming into her thoughts when she let it, was worse. _He'd drowned. Not breathing._ _How_ _long_ _?_ She was terrified of the "three's. _" Three weeks without food. Three days without water._ _Three minutes without air._ _How long was it, why didn't I search sooner, WHY DIDN'T I FUCKING KEEP HIM FROM WALKING OFF?_ She could hardly breathe. Her brilliant, mercurial, polymath pain in the ass and joy of her life might have suffered devastating injury to his most fundamental self.

She clutched her cross and prayed every prayer she knew to God and every saint she could remember. She flung out an agonized, incoherent, emotional plea that there be justice in the vast, indifferent universe, at least this once.

"Agent Lisbon?" Louder, "Agent Lisbon."

She rose, blinking back tears. "Yes?"

"Mr. Jane is going to be admitted."

"How is he?"

"He's doing well. The doctors want to check some things out further."

"Can I see him?"

The nurse glanced toward the treatment area. "He's being taken up to the neurology floor and should be settled in after about 15 minutes." Lisbon's sick fear shone in her eyes. "Don't worry, he really is doing well."

She started breathing again. "Good. Um." She looked around and lifted the bag. "I have his things. From the EMT's."

The nurse reached out a hand. "I'll put them under his bed so they'll make it to his room."

Lisbon took a step forward as she turned to leave. "Wait! Where do I go?"

"I'll come tell you as soon as I know the room number. It's past visiting hours but we're flexible for law enforcement officers, especially when someone was injured on duty."

She hung on by hope and a few offhanded words. 'Really is doing well.' _Wonder if that's the doctors' idea of doing well or mine? Stop it, just stop it. I'll see him soon."_

Twenty minutes later Lisbon was searching for room 521. No one was around as she quietly walked the corridors, mindful people were asleep. She wouldn't let herself even think of sleep. Not till she saw Jane.

 _At last!_ Lisbon cracked the door. Once sure he was alone she pushed it open and stepped in.

Quietly, "Jane?"* _Looks asleep._ He stirred and blinked groggily. She walked over and perched on the edge of the bed, knees weak with relief. _Thank God, alert and_ _present_ _._ "How you feeling?"*

"Excellent, I think."*

 _Subdued. Of course he's subdued after tonight._ "It's good to see you breathing."* She allowed herself a smile.

"It's good to see you, period."* His glance took in her whole figure.

 _ThankGodthankGodthankGod._ "We're doing everything we can to find your attacker. –You didn't happen to see a face, did you?"* She allowed herself to relax into normal investigative mode. _Doubt we'd be that lucky but have to ask._

"N-o-o. Not that I can remember."*

 _Something's 'off.' Indirect, guarded – what?_ "What's the last thing you do remember?"*

Jane motioned her closer. Hesitantly, "Are we sleeping together?"*

"Excuse me?!"* _Why's he messing with me now of all times?_

He leaned back. "Well, you're a cop, that's obvious, but you're not treating me like a suspect. And I can't see any other reason for a police officer–"* he chuckled at the thought, "to come to my bedside unless we're – unless we're sleeping together."*

The hair on her neck rose. Every mental alarm went crazy. Shocked, "You don't ... know who I am."* Worry came roaring back. _What's wrong with him? Neurology floor. Did he hit his head?_

"Please don't take it personally. I'm sure you're quite memorable."* Lisbon reined in a knee-jerk reaction to a line so over-used it was a cliche. "I just – I – I've been through a lot ... apparently."*

 _And that sounds sincere. Whatever, we are_ not _going down this road._ "No. We are _not_ sleeping together."* She was so at a loss she could only follow where he led.

"We're working toward it, though, right? So I haven't missed anything? –What's your name?"*

The irritating, charming Jane she was used to came through so strongly she wanted to punch him _. If he's goofing me I swear I'll shoot him in this hospital bed!_ She tilted her head and let herself grin, "Are you putting me on?"*

"I wish I was."* Jane was unmistakably sincere.

Lisbon exhaled and squared her shoulders. _Oh, God. This is real._ "Um, I'm Teresa Lisbon with the CBI. I'm a homicide detective. You're my consultant."*

Eagerly, "I catch bad guys? Wow, that sounds like fun. I always wanted to pit my psychic skills against criminals."*

"You're not a psychic. You used to pretend to be one, but you–"* She stopped dead. _Jesus, he doesn't know!_

"But what? Teresa?"*

 _Gotta get out of here, no way I can drop that on him. He almost died. "_ Uh, I'm sorry. I should have talked to the doctor before I came in here-"* _Get out and find his doctor._

"-Whoa, whoa. Teresa, wait. I saw something during my attack."*

"What did you see?"* _A clue?_

"A light."*

"What kind of light?"*

"White light. Intensely bright."* _That sounds like a near-death experience._ It scared her because it could have been exactly that _. He almost died._ She refocused on what he was saying."And I walked toward it. There were people, lots of people gathered around, reaching out with their hands to me. There was a woman – a woman who knew you. Your mother."*

 _Dammit, what's he playing at? I_ know _this is crap._ Quietly, "Jane, I'm not impressed. I told you my mother died when I was a girl."*

"Well, did you tell me that she gave you that cross? You touched it just like that when I was unconscious. It's what led her to me. And now I can lead her to you."*

 _My mother's_ not _going to be used for a fake psychic reading._ "You want to put me in touch with my dead mother."* _When hell freezes over!_

I'm a psychic, Teresa. That's what I do."*

She closed her eyes and grabbed her wild emotions by the throat. _He. Almost. Died. He's exhausted and messed up. Give the man a break._ "Jane, you've had a helluva night. Whatever is going on, we'll sort it out. You need to rest." She had to add, "For God's sake, do what the doctors say and don't give them crap." She looked directly into his eyes, "I'll be back tomorrow before work, okay? _Promise_ you'll stay here?"

Jane tiredly agreed and at last she ended the Through The Looking Glass conversation. She leaned against the wall outside his room, took a deep breath, then exhaled.

"Nurse, I was told Dr. Miller is Patrick Jane's doctor. If he's around may I talk to him?"

"Just a moment and I'll get him for you." She pointed, "You can wait over there."

Lisbon used the wait to call SacPD and request an officer be posted at Jane's door. He'd been attacked and almost killed. If he was going to stay the night she would make sure he was protected.

Dr. Miller walked up five minutes later. "Agent Lisbon, you wanted to talk to me?"

"Patrick Jane is a consultant on my team and I have his medical power of attorney. Please tell me how he's doing. He, um, he isn't making much sense. –He doesn't know who I am,*" she said with a desperate edge.

"He doesn't know who _he_ is, either. It's called dissociative fugue – the temporary loss of personal identity. It can last for hours or months, and in rare cases, years."*

"But he remembers some things, like he used to be a fake psychic. He just did a cold reading on me. –It was a good one."*

"Has he had any previous traumas?"*

"His wife and daughter were murdered."*

"There you go. His subconscious mind is protecting itself from further trauma by blocking out that pain. As far as Patrick knows, his family never existed."*

"Their death is what brought him to us."*

"And that's why he doesn't know you. But it sounds like you're just what he needs to get back on his feet."*

Lisbon looked down and tried to gather her thoughts. Looking back up, "Dr. Miller, there are no physical injuries – it's all a, a psychological reaction to the attack?"

"Yes. But don't underestimate the impact of losing his identity. From his perspective, he's missing ten years of his life. He doesn't know anything about what he's been doing, any friends or – did he remarry?" She shook her head. "Dissociative fugue is profoundly isolating and disruptive. Blocking trauma comes at a high psychological cost in other ways."

"Is there treatment, should we tell him about his life?"

"No. No, there's no specific treatment. Being surrounded by people and locations from his present life will hasten regaining his memory. But it's important for him to regain his memories on his own, when his subconscious determines he can deal with the trauma."

"When will he be discharged?"

"As you can imagine, it may not be safe for him to go about his life missing so many years. Since he isn't married, I think the best approach is to release him into the custody of a responsible adult during the day while returning here each night. I do want to monitor how well he adapts to his unusual situation."

Lisbon puffed out her cheeks as she exhaled and nodded. "That's what we'll do then. I'll be back tomorrow for him." Miller shook hands with her and walked off.

Lisbon nodded to the cop now sitting near Jane's door. She peeked into Jane's room before leaving, reassuring herself that he was alive, physically okay. After finding him deeply asleep she left and drove home. She called Cho, then Rigsby and Van Pelt. It was incredibly more positive than it might have been. A few days or weeks and Jane would be the Jane they knew – and who knew them! – again.

She showered and got ready for bed. Before turning in she knelt with her rosary to offer the deepest prayers of thanks she could. He was alive. She would continue to enjoy the presence of this fascinating, capable man in her life. _Thank God._


	3. Chapter 3- J POV: Picking Up The Pieces

**Chapter 3: Picking Up The Pieces**

A/N: Dialog marked with an asterisk ("*") is directly quoted from The Mentalist Fugue in Red episode.

Patrick Jane's hospital room door opened with a soft swish.

"Jane?"* a quiet voice asked tentatively.

Jane rolled his head toward the sound, reluctantly surfacing from exhaustion one more time. He blinked slowly, licking dry lips. A woman – _not nurse_ – walked closer, concern radiating from her. Dark, nondescript clothing, faintly smelling of – _mildew? rotting leaves?_ She sat on the edge of his bed with an easy familiarity.

"How you feeling?"* Affection blended with concern.

Slowly, "Excellent, I think."* _She_ knows _me_. _Who is she_ _?_ He came up blank.

"It's good to see you breathing,"* she said, smiling warmly.

He scanned her subtly. "It's good to see you, period."* _Slender, elfin, huge green eyes. Ignores the implied compliment, dresses to downplay her beauty. Why?_

Low key, serious, "We're doing everything we can to find your attacker. You didn't happen to see a face, did you?"*

 _Cop. And – and, girlfriend?_ "N-o-o. Not that I can remember."* _Not that I can remember anything._

"What's the last thing you do remember?"*

That struck the heart of his vulnerability. _Distract her till I figure how to manage this ... and maybe see what's under that cop persona._ He leaned forward and motioned her closer. He asked tentatively, "Are we sleeping together?"*

"Excuse me?!"* she drew back, nonplussed, offended.

"Well, you're a cop, that's obvious, but you're not treating me like a suspect. And I can't see any other reason for a police officer–"* he chuckled and smiled, "to come to my bedside unless we're – unless we're sleeping together,"* helpless to make any other sense of his now-absurd reality.

She frowned. Doubtful, uncertain, "You don't ... know who I am."*

Polite and uncertain in turn, "Please don't take it personally. I'm sure you're quite memorable."* He mentally winced at echoing the lie every man told every casual liaison, even though he didn't mean it that way. "-I just – I – I've been through a lot ... apparently,"* resigned to having his vulnerability laid bare.

"No. We are _not_ sleeping together."* She left no room for doubt.

 _Overly definitive. Denying her interest?_ "We're working toward it, though, right? So I haven't missed anything?"* He smiled and she rolled her eyes. "–What's your name?"* He teased and provoked, hoping to learn more. To his surprise, although _he_ didn't remember, his body recalled ... some sort of connection. He tamped down the reaction.

Her attitude suddenly changed. Quirked lips curled into a grin, "Are you putting me on?"*

"I wish I was,"* he answered simply, drowning in uncertainty.

She unconsciously straightened, an aura of responsibility and authority settling over her. "Um, I'm Teresa Lisbon with the CBI. I'm a homicide detective. You're my consultant."*

"I catch bad guys? Wow, that sounds like fun,"* latching onto the only positive in the whole alarming mess. "I always wanted to pit my psychic skills against criminals."* _Free publicity and credibility by solving crimes with the cops. Finally, something makes sense._

"You're not a psychic. You used to pretend to be one, but you–"* She stopped dead in mid sentence, eyes wide and mouth slightly open.

"But what? Teresa?"* Reality was spinning out of control again. _'Not a psychic'? If she thinks? – knows? – that, where do I stand, what–"_

Her openness slammed shut. "Uh, I'm sorry. I should have talked to the doctor before I came in here."* She turned toward the door. "I–"*

Desperate to keep her talking, to get her to stay, "Whoa, whoa. Teresa, wait. I saw something during my attack."*

She turned back. Cop mode again, "What did you see?"*

Desperate to impress, convince her of his psychic talents, "A light."*

"What kind of light?"*

"White light. Intensely bright. And I walked toward it. There were people, lots of people gathered around, reaching out with their hands to me. There was a woman-"* He swallowed and paused a beat. _Half convinced._ "–a woman who knew you. Your mother."*

"Jane, I'm not impressed. I told you my mother died when I was a girl."*

Her disappointment and rejection stung. He doubled down. "Well, did you tell me that she gave you that cross? You touched it just like that when I was unconscious. –It's what led her to me. And now I can lead her to you."

Annoyed, unconvinced and increasingly angry, "You wanna put me in touch with my dead mother?"*

"I'm a psychic, Teresa. That's what I do."* _The only person who knows anything about me, the person I need to figure this out, doesn't buy it. Where's my leverage if she doesn't believe in psychic insight –_ my _psychic insight?_ He made damn sure his face expressed nothing but sincere conviction.

She unexpectedly put a hand on his arm, pulling him out of his thoughts. "Jane, you've had a helluva night. Whatever is going on, we'll sort it out. You need to rest." She bit her lower lip and added sternly, "For God's sake, do what the doctors say and don't give them crap." She lowered her head to look directly into his eyes, "I'll be back tomorrow before work, okay? Promise you'll stay here?" The last was almost pleading.

Enervated, "Yeah. I'll be here. Um, thanks." He wasn't sure why he thanked her. The door closed behind her and he was alone.

He sighed and shook his head tiredly, more confused than ever. He pulled the blanket up and slid down to lie flat, relieved when the lights dimmed. _I 'consult' for Teresa Lisbon, a cop. She knows I'm not psychic. Why would cops hire a con man who they know has no supernatural insights?_ He snorted. _–At least I'm not in trouble with the law ... so far as I know. I was attacked. And a cop rescu – a cop?! A cop smelling like rotting leaves?_ He pulled a lock of his hair to his nose and sniffed. _Same smell._ _Teresa_ _rescued me._ He released a little of the worry. _I was attacked because of the case, not me or my past. Geez, am I running cons on the side? How could I, surrounded by cops?_

Fading fast, he took a second stab at constructing a narrative of his present. _I consult for Teresa Lisbon, a cop, working for something called 'CBI.' Likely the FBI equivalent for California. She rescued me, so I was working on a, uh, a case with her. That explains why the doctor mentioned insurance and colleagues. Teresa knows me, likes me – more than 'likes' if she'd let herself – even knowing I'm a fake psychic._ He scratched his jaw. _Not my usual type, but she is beautiful._ He half shrugged. _Or would be if she stopped hiding it. A little older than– Oh, hell,_ I'm _ten years older!_ He held his hurting head with both hands till the pain subsided. He dropped his hands. _She's coming back tomorrow. Tomorrow..._ Sleep finally trumped worry.

RN Sarah woke Patrick Jane at 7 a.m., Thursday. He blindly cooperated as she took vital signs and only protested mildly when she drew a blood sample. His mind took a full minute to catch up with how he got there. He made a random choice of breakfast in hopes she'd leave so he could think, only to face Dr. Miller again. Miller checked his pupils and ran through an abbreviated list of questions. He was content no physical problem had arisen and that Jane was thinking clearly. Miller approved Jane leaving the hospital in the care of a responsible adult, and urged him interact with his normal environment. Miller instructed Jane to return in the evening. Jane didn't share his opinion of those instructions.

At last Jane was alone. His vision was cloudy, stomach queasy, and he started coughing as soon as he moved around, all of which made sense if he'd swallowed and breathed in dirty pond – _was it a pond?_ – water. He made his way to the bathroom, coughed till he no longer felt he was drowning in mucus, splashed water in his eyes and cupped his hand to drink. He took stock of himself as he dried off after a long shower. He was in pretty good shape for being in his 30's instead of 20's. His face had a few more lines, as would be expected. The complimentary toiletry kit included a disposable razor, which he gratefully used.

Dressing was more problematic. _Clothes are dry. Must have been rinsed because they don't smell like pond water._ _Shirt's hopeless, but suit's almost wrinkle free. Vest will cover the worst of it._ He shrugged and donned boxers, shirt and socks, feeling slightly less vulnerable with each additional piece of clothing. He fingered the fabric as he looked over the suit. He snorted. _Probably look like a banker in a three piece gray job but, damn!, it's a nice suit._ A silk square embroidered with 'Patrick Jane' was hand-sewn to the lining instead of a store or designer label. He was certain the instant he put it on. _Perfect fit. Bespoke suit. Guess I'm not working crappy bars anymore after all._

Cleaned up and dressed he had nowhere to go and nothing to do. He sat on the bed and fidgeted from nervous energy. The situation was ridiculous. _Nothing keeping me here ... except there's equally no reason to be anywhere else. Don't know where I'm s'posed to go or who to go to. If anyone._ Everything he knew about himself came from his clothes or last night's brief conversation with Teresa.

 _And she's the only one I saw – a cop I work with. Wouldn't expect Pete or Sam to call. Who's even in touch after all that time? I plan ..._ He blinked and swallowed a lump _. I was planning to get Angie out of the carnival. That was_ _ten years ago_ _,_ he thought with a pang. _Guess it didn't happen._ He swallowed again. _Girlfriend? I mean, I'm in my 30's now. Anything, any_ one _more ... permanent? Where do I live, is the cop thing all I've got going?_

He exhaled in frustration. Twisting the gold band reminded him it was on his finger. He took a breath and pulled it off. The inscription was a simple cursive, 'Love you forever.' _Could be anyone's._ He wondered whether it was part of a scam, why he'd chosen to use it _. No one came or called other than Teresa so I'm not with anyone – much less married! Maybe it helps the illusion. Safer. Less player, more 'meaningful relationship.' Or maybe it's part of a con. Damn, if I've got something underway I'll blow it for sure unless I get my memory back and soon._ The enormity of ten blank years began to sink in. _I need to find out somehow. Forget waiting for my memory to magically fix itself! Where's my billfold and-_

"-Mr. Jane, here's breakfast," Sarah interrupted cheerfully as she nudged the door open with her hip. She put the tray on the moveable table.

"Thanks. –Say, do you know who rinsed my clothes out? Would the night shift have done something like that?"

"Sorry, I don't know. Not a nurse. Wouldn't have time with the lean staffing levels."

"Appreciate the information. Do you know what they did with my wallet and things?" he asked sweetly.

"Personal effects are sent up from the ER with the patient. They're locked up at the nurse's station for security. Once I get the other patients their food I'll bring you your things. Dr. Miller said you'd be out for awhile today. Glad you're doing better." She threw him a smile and left.

 _Hurry up and wait._ That _hasn't changed._ Jane pulled over the table and picked through the food: Fruit, pancakes, yogurt, bacon – though he suspected it was some sort of 'healthful' imposter. It was passably good and he was hungry. The nurse returned with his things just as he finished, and replaced the food tray with a metal box. Another smile and she was gone, door closing quietly behind her.

Jane took a deep breath, equally eager and apprehensive. He picked up his clip-on CBI badge and studied the photo. _This is pointless. Yeah, it's me and I look like me. Older me._ Turning it over was more rewarding. _Date. S-o-o, I've been working for the CBI four years. That's a long time._ He set that aside and picked up a ring of keys. _Car key to a foreign make I don't recognize, gym locker, hotel key?! And what looks like house keys. Apartment, condo, house? Can't tell._ He took disproportionate pleasure in a few favorite, long-time possessions: Lockpick set, double-headed coin, and a hopelessly soaked deck of trick cards which he tossed in the wastebasket. The solid gold, antique pocket watch was expensive. And clogged with sediment. _No inscription unfortunately._

Last and most threatening/promising was his billfold. Jane took a moment to look over the outside. _Old, Hermes – several hundred new. Must be making money somehow..._ Jane gingerly opened the sodden leather. _Though,_ as he pulled out a five, two dollar bills and 13 cents _, I'm certainly not keeping it in cash. Driver's license, mostly intact except,_ he grimaced in frustration, _the address is a smear of gray ink. Great._ He could read only, _"–u, CA 90265." Have to look up the zip code. Least I know I stayed in the state. –But why not Sacramento if I'm working for the cops here?_ He shook his head at another unanswerable question. _Platinum American Express card, expired. Debit card. Tells me nothing. Insurance card – super, won't have to donate a kidney to pay for my little stay._ His pulse spiked at sight of the shiny edge of a photo. He delicately tried to extract the soaked paper ... and ended up with a pile of minuscule, glittering fragments separated from the backing. He swallowed his disappointment that the thing that would have been the most telling was rendered useless. He clenched his jaw. _I have – had – a photo worth keeping. Sure as hell wouldn't be Alex so who? Angie? If we broke up why would I keep it?_

He emptied most of a box of tissue, laid out each item and blotted the water as best he could. By the time he finished, the billfold and surviving contents were merely damp. He had just slipped his billfold into his breast pocket when there was a knock and the door swung open.

"Jane," called Teresa Lisbon walking in. Approvingly, "You're up and dressed." Warmth and concern were easy to read. "How are you?"

He plastered on a smile. "Better." As she opened her mouth to ask he answered, "No, don't remember anything more. Unfortunately." He bit his lower lip, needing her to invite him into his ... life, but not wanting to ask.

"Dr. Miller says you should be in familiar surroundings. What do you want to do?" she asked gently.

"Come to work? I mean, that's the only thing I know about," he said uncertainly.

"That's fine. You're part of my team and we have a case."

"And I help with that?"

"Normally. Feel up to working?"

"Yes." Determined, "If that's the best way to remember, the sooner the better."

She glanced at her watch. "Um, I have a meeting with Wainwright–"

He tilted his head, reading her. "–Your boss – who you don't much like."

Her eyebrows knitted and she rubbed her forehead, "–Um, anyhow I have a meeting with him and the hospital wants your insurance information. A bit anxiously, "Can you get to the CBI on your own?"

He grinned, "I lost my memory not my mind, Tere–"

"–Lisbon," She interjected. At his fleeting look of hurt she rushed to explain, "Standard cop speak. _Everyone_ uses last names."

"Oh."

"The address–"

"–is on my CBI ID." He frowned slightly, "How much is a cab from here?"

"It's not far. No more than five dollars." She nodded to reassure him or maybe herself. She looked at her watch again. "I've gotta get going." Before turning away, she put her hand on his arm. Softly, "It's gonna be okay, Jane. We'll all do whatever you need." She flushed faintly and left.

He watched her hurry away. _This had better work._ He opened the door and was startled at the cop posted outside. _What? Am I under arrest, was she–_

"Morning, Mr. Jane," the officer said courteously as he stood. He extended his hand, "Officer Riley McIlwain."

Jane automatically shook his hand. Uncertainly, "I'm supposed to go to the CBI once I give the hospital my insurance info."

"I'm just finishing my shift. I'll give you a lift. The CBI's on the way."

"O-kay. I don't know where–"

"Patient accounting's this way. Spent way too much time here when my mom was sick," he explained. McIlwain walked toward the elevator. After a moment of indecision, Jane followed.

The short drive was long enough for McIlwain to wax eloquent.

"...can't say how much I appreciate meeting you."

"Yeah?"

"A bunch of us have worked cases that went to Agent Lisbon's team. SacPD butts heads with the CBI, but your team gets the job done. You really have a 100% close rate?"

"That what you hear?"

Darkly, "– I mean, _almost_. You know." His cheerful demeanor returned. "Even if you don't always do things by the book, your cases hold up and get the perps off the street. You're damn near a legend, Mr. Jane. Wait'll I tell my partner."

"Can't take all the credit," he replied, hoping McIlwain wouldn't press for details.

He laughed, "That's news. Never heard you were modest."

Jane shrugged. "Got me."

McIlwain pulled up to the manned gate. "Tommy, just need to drop off one of yours."

"'Kay, Riley." The security guard peered into the squad car. "Oh. 'Morning, Mr. Jane. Glad to see you're okay."

"Thanks, Tommy," Jane replied, echoing the name McIlwain used.

McIlwain pulled over and parked beside the "Fire Lane - No Parking" sign. "I need to go up. Forgot to get Agent Lisbon's signature to bill the CBI."

Jane just nodded. They passed through Security's metal detector. The gaggle of arriving CBI employees was like running a gantlet. Most obviously knew him and he could read their strong opinions. _Now I know how a monkey at the zoo feels._ They boarded an elevator. A burly man in his 50's rushed to get on then noticed Jane and pointedly chose to wait, his sneer reinforcing the sullen dislike in his eyes.

After the elevator emptied out on the third floor McIlwain commented, "I see Hannigan's still an ass. You know he transferred here from SacPD. Rumor has it he couldn't stomach working with you after you made him lose his temper. He whines about how he was shafted when he stops by the station."

A man around 30 who would always look like a teenager got on. "Jane!"

Jane nodded, wondering who the hell he was.

"Lisbon said you'd be in. I understand you're working the case?"

"That's right." He caught sight of the man's clip-on photo ID.

"Well, I'm happy to be a sounding board if my expertise can help you with your – situation."

"Not necessary, Agent Wainwright," Jane replied easily. Wainwright looked at him oddly. _Missed that one. Probably call him 'Luther.'_

They arrived on the fifth floor and McIlwain stepped closer to the doors. Jane had positioned himself so McIlwain would exit first, not wanting it to be obvious he didn't know where to go. McIlwain got out and Jane followed _. Me, law-enforcement legend, that's a laugh! Only – what the hell do I know about law enforcement? B &B – bluff and bravado. _McIlwain reached a group seated around a conference table with Lisbon and stopped. _Showtime._


	4. Chapter 4 - L POV: Wild Card

**Chapter 4: Wild Card**

A/N: Dialog marked with an asterisk ("*") is directly quoted from The Mentalist Fugue in Red episode.

The SCU team gathered in the bullpen to go over the Satterfield case. They were all shaken by Jane's near death, which was then magnified by the unexpected twist of memory loss. Lisbon broke the news that Jane would be working the case with them. As she expected, Van Pelt worried about what she should do to help, Cho reserved judgment, and Rigsby freaked. Their affection and sky high respect for Jane's abilities were evenly balanced by wariness of his unpredictable trickery. _After Timothy Carter, can hardly blame them. Rigsby's the most insecure. ... 'Course Jane teases him unmercifully. The memory thing is a step too far for comfort._

Lisbon cut short the debate. "Jane needs something to hold on to and we're gonna give it to him.* He was injured in the line of duty. No different than if it was a gunshot wound or wracked up back." _Said it but of course it's different. Still..._ Though she hadn't singled him out, Rigsby nodded and looked down.

They were a few minutes into their discussion when Officer McIlwain arrived with Jane in tow. McIlwain left once Lisbon authorized SacPD to bill the CBI for Jane's protective detail.

Jane swaggered in and took center stage. "Okay, I vote we skip the awkward introductions because you all know me, and in one sweeping glance, I know as much about each of you as the day I forgot you."* He remained standing.

"You gave us a scare yesterday,"* Van Pelt said uncertainly.

"Well, not my intention, I assure you,"* he said warmly, looking down at her.

Rigsby's gaze turned cold at their enfant terrible's too-warm attentiveness to Van Pelt. He said civilly, "Well, we're just glad you pulled through."*

"Thanks, Bigsby."*

" _Rigsby._ It's Wayne Rigsby."*

"Wayne,"* Jane repeated.

 _What's he pulling? Focus and stop baiting Rigsby._ Lisbon wrenched the conversation to work. "We're just working the case so feel free to jump in anytime."*

Jane turned to a board displaying crime scene details. A masked ATM robber was caught on camera as he shot a security guard. "Okay. Your armed robber – desperate amateur. Why work alone? Because he doesn't know any other criminals. The lucha libre mask projects the correct attitude. But look, _look_ at what he is wearing – khakis and a fitted sweater."*

 _Damn. He's_ _performing_ _. If I hadn't seen his uncertainty at the hospital, I'd think he's just screwing with us._ "Jane–"* Lisbon tried to interrupt.

"–No wonder the guard tried to shoot him. The closest a man should ever come to touching a fitted sweater is helping a woman out of one!"* he announced with a flourish. Applause wouldn't have been out of place ... had not his whole riff been out of place.

More strongly, "Jane. Another team is handling the ATM lobby hit. We got the dead fireman."*

A bit taken aback, "Got it."*

Jane subsided as the agents went through case details and played a video of Satterfield rescuing a man from a home fire. The morning fire was the last one Satterfield fought before being murdered that night. Finally done with the preliminary evidence, Lisbon assigned tasks for the case.

Rigsby was outraged that Satterfield's partner was AWOL during Satterfield's dangerous rescue from the house fire. "I wanna know who let the victim into that death trap alone."*

"Go to the firehouse and find out. Take Jane."*

"Me?"* Jane asked, surprised.

"Whoever killed Satterfield tried to kill you."*

"Oh? You want to give him another try at that?"*

Despite the flip question, Lisbon read real fear. _Can I blame him?_ "You'll be okay. Rigsby will be with you."*

Jane looked hard at Rigsby as he rose to leave, then reluctantly followed.

Lisbon gave Van Pelt and Cho their assignments, then strode away to her office. The door closed with a bang, harder than intended. She dropped into her chair and rubbed her forehead. _Sheep dip. Thought the team might trigger his memories, provide support. Instead they're strangers and he's performing for us. How am I–_

The phone interrupted her stewing. "Lisbon. ... Yes, sir. ... He is working the case. ... Doctor says he _should_ be around familiar people and places. ... They're fine with it. ... We'll make sure we keep him out of danger. Shouldn't be any liability issues. ... Yes, sir." She let the handset drop as she closed her eyes and shook her head. _Like I need Wainwright playing psychiatrist with Jane. Keep him and Bertram as far away from this as possible._

She took a long draught from her mug and sat back. _Ditch the wishful thinking and start dealing with reality._ His _reality. Jane's physically fine, thank God, but he's missing around ten years of memories. He doesn't know any of this, any of us. So. Feral Jane, before he got used to law enforcement._ Her brow furrowed and her lips twitched in irritation. _Damned if I know why he's acting like an out of control adolescent. Geez, it's like I'm back with my teenage brothers._

About to take another sip, she set her mug down abruptly. _Oh, hell._ _Ten years_ _or so. Mentally, emotionally he's in his early 20's. After leaving the carnival but before settling down with Angela. My God, he must have been a handful. Full of himself, finally free of his bastard father, hustling to make it. And this is before he rubbed shoulders with rich, educated, sophisticated clients and_ made _himself fit in. Jane's not just self-made, he's self-_ designed _. Early 20's? A little rough, a little callow, a little randy. This will be a disaster unless I get a handle on it quick._

She shoved the case file to the side and started making a list of what she needed to find out. She browsed the web and read anything she found on dissociative fugue. She sighed and gulped a couple extra-strength analgesics in hopes of heading off a headache. Then she walked over to Van Pelt's desk and asked her to find a phone number.

"This takes precedence over the Satterfield case?"

"Yes. Let me know soon as you get that number."

"Yes, ma'am."

Lisbon returned to her office and placed a call to Jane's doctor at SacGeneral. She put it on speaker so she could take notes.

"Doctor, I need more information about Patrick Jane's condition and prognosis."

"I'm happy to meet in person if that would be easier."

"Thank you, but I'm in the middle of a murder investigation. May we handle it by phone if I keep it brief?"

"Go ahead then."

She started hesitantly, "I gather the hope is the patient spontaneously recovers his memories. What if he doesn't for a long time – weeks or months?"

"If the fugue state persists that long, we recommend psychiatric counseling to work through the source of trauma."

"The attack and drowning?" _Like Jane's gonna buy into a shrink._

"No, that was just the trigger. The more significant one – his family's murder."

Her stomach dropped. _Who would I even trust to tackle that?_ "And if he refuses counseling?"

"Then our hands are tied. Short of being a danger to himself or others, people cannot be forced into treatment."

"I read 'fugue' means 'flight.' What happens to people during the fugue state?"

"Flight is a very real risk. In fact, it is a key indicator of a fugue state. Some travel thousands of miles, establish whole new identities. There are instances where the condition lasted for years. The practical implications can be serious..."

 _Doctor, you have no idea!_ She shook her head to clear the deluge of imagined complications and refocused on the conversation.

"-unwittingly marries again. With memories of his former life gone for a significant period, the disruption is correspondingly significant."

"You said it's best if his memories come back on their own. What if they don't? Or what if he established a new life and suddenly something triggers his memories?"

"It's a dual risk. The memory loss can cause confusion, leave the patient unable to deal with normal life. If deemed to be a danger to themselves, patients have been involuntarily committed under the Baker Act."

 _Involuntary commitment_ reverberated in her skull. "And if he suddenly recovers his memories in a new place, around people who didn't know about the past trauma, what then?"

"Patients who have just recovered their memories are often angry and confused. They typically do not remember what happened during the fugue state. If the fugue was prolonged, the disruption and dislocation are magnified."

Throat dry, "Is the memory loss ever _permanent?_ Could he start a new life, kind of a fresh start?" Her heart pounded. _Which answer is worse?_

"This is not a brain injury. There's no _physical_ reason the memory loss would be permanent. Sooner or later, I expect he will regain those missing memories."

"What do you recommend?"

"I cannot tell you what to do, Agent, and of course I need to determine Mr. Jane's wishes. But I think it's in his best interests if he remains in contact with friends or relatives who know him and his history, who will look out for him. If the fugue persists, he should seek psychiatric counseling."

"Thank you, doctor."

"You're welcome."

There was a knock moments after she hung up.

"Boss, got a minute?"

"Yeah, Cho." She waved him in and looked at him expectantly.

"About Jane."

"What?"

"Talked to Rigs. Didn't go well." She raised her eyebrows, waiting for him to continue. "Jane pulled a prank, p.o.'d the EMT who saved his life and most of the rest. Got a lead that might help"

"Pretty ordinary."

Cho's eyebrow twitched. "Except Rigs says everything is 'off.' You saw it this morning."

Bluntly, "It's awkward. So?"

Deliberately, "Don't care about awkward. Dangerous if he's even more unpredictable at crime scenes and with suspects." Lisbon looked down at her desk. After a moment, "Boss?"

She exhaled in frustration. "I poked around the internet. 'Fugue" means 'flight.' Not good having a wild card on cases. But if we don't hang on to him, he might disappear."

"How long?"

"Days, months, years. Some start completely new lives, form new identities."

Cho actually frowned. Slowly, "Jane could come out ahead with a new life. But not if he can't even recognize the perps he's put away. And, there's always–"

"–Red John," they said in unison.

She could see her 2IC stiffen with the same tension she felt. "What are you going to do?"

"I need to make a call. You tell Rigs to stay with Jane till I collect him for lunch. After lunch, you'll take Jane to that burned out house. _Don't_ _lose_ _him_ _._ "

"Will do."

Van Pelt stepped in when Cho opened the door to leave.

"Boss, found that phone number." The young woman handed it to Lisbon.

"Thanks, Van Pelt." The redhead turned to leave.

"Wait. Get Cho back here." Lisbon waited until both were in her office.

"I have something more for each of you. Van Pelt, find a padlock and lock Jane's attic room. No way in hell do I want him stumbling on Red John material. Make sure there's nothing about Red John by his desk or couch."

Van Pelt hunched her shoulders uncomfortably, "Jane _hates_ people going through his stuff."

"Too bad. For his own good. Cho–"

"-What about his motel room?" They spoke over each other.

She nodded. "Here. This is his emergency key. I don't know when he'll be back there, but I don't want him finding out about Red John alone in that crappy room. Put anything in a box and store it somewhere Jane won't find it."

"My place?"

"Yeah. Thanks, Cho." She turned.

"Boss?" hazarded Van Pelt. Lisbon paused. "What happens the next time we get a Red John or, or copycat case?" remembering that Red John was supposed to be dead ... except Lisbon and Jane weren't acting like it and Panzer's murder was eerily authentic. "Or someone outside the team mentions something?"

Lisbon slumped just a fraction. "We take this one step at a time. No matter what, Jane shouldn't find out about Red John and his family when he's alone." Both nodded. "It's gotta be better to control the situation than have it happen accidentally." They left. Lisbon took the moment to visit the women's room and get fresh coffee. She closed the door and sat behind her desk. She had another call to make. Tension pulled her ramrod straight.

She took a deep breath and placed the call, again on speaker so she could take notes.

It answered on the second ring. "This is Dr. Sophie Miller's office. If you have a life-threatening emergency, please hang up and call 9-1-1. Otherwise, leave your name, phone number and a brief message after the beep. Be well."

"This is CBI Agent Teresa Lisbon, number 916-555-1311. It's important I speak with you about Patrick Jane as soon as possible. If I miss your call, I will be back in the office after 2:30 this afternoon." She hesitated a beat too long then added, "Thank you" before hanging up. She knew Miller would pick up on that. And hated it.

Her phone rang fifteen minutes later. "Lisbon."

"This is Dr. Miller," a familiar, cool voice responded.

Relieved but apprehensive, "Thank you for calling back quickly. Dr. Miller, I need advice about Jane that you are uniquely qualified to provide."

"You should know I am required to hold patient information confidential." She added, pro forma, "Indeed, I can neither confirm nor deny that Patrick was a patient of mine."

"Dr. Miller, please. I think we share an interest in helping Jane. That's why I'm calling."

"Is he all right? And does he know you're calling me?"

"Jane is fine physically. He doesn't know I'm calling."

"I'm listening."

Lisbon hoped the phone wouldn't pick up noise from grinding her teeth. She took a deep breath and plunged in. "Jane was at a murder scene last night. He went searching for a murder weapon, was attacked, and nearly drowned."

Sharply, "Drowned?"

"He was revived. Fortunately he is okay–"

"-Can you possibly be precise?"

Lisbon choked back her temper. "He suffered no neurological or other physical injury."

"But–?"

"Nearly dying triggered dissociative fugue. The SacGeneral neurologist believes the fugue is protecting him from the earlier trauma of his family's murder."

"How long?"

"How long wha– Ten years. He doesn't remember being married to Angela, his daughter Charlotte, their murder, Red John, the CBI, or anything else till now."

Miller was quiet for 15 seconds. "How is he taking it?"

"Jane's putting up a good front. But he is uncertain, wary, vulnerable, confused."

The question was rapid fire. "Mentally confused or confused about his situation?"

"The situation. The SacGeneral doctor–"

"–does he have a name?"

Lisbon near strangled the phone handset but managed to answer evenly. "Dr. Jason Miller. He says it's best Jane regains his memories on his own. And that being surrounded by familiar people and places might help."

"And you're calling because it's not going well."

Icy in return, "I'm calling because I think there's a real risk Jane will disappear. Without his memories, he is vulnerable to every violent criminal he helped put away. _And_ Red John."

"Is this a real or merely theoretical concern? And I thought Red John, alias Timothy Carter, was killed six months ago. Patrick did a masterful job with the jury from what I saw on the news."

Lisbon ground out, "It is a _very_ real concern. A few years ago the daughter of someone he helped catch abducted and almost killed him. There have been others, Dr. Miller."

Curiosity bled through the superior attitude for the first time, "And Red John is still alive?"

Carefully, "There is a difference of opinion on that. The San Joaquin Killer who murdered several girls was killed with the same MO after talking about Red John on a news program."

"What does – did – Patrick think?"

"I'm sorry, I really cannot say more since it involves several on-going investigations."

Brusquely, "What do you need from me?"

"Information. You know Jane, his history. He might leave, start a ... different life somewhere else. What happens if Jane learns about a new Red John murder or reads about past Red John crimes? How bad is it if there's no one around who knows about all this?"

" _Hypothetically,_ if I had a patient with the background you describe ... it would be very serious. Destabilizing. Especially if the patient had never resolved his role in the murders."

"Do fugue victims always recover their memories?"

"To my knowledge, yes. Regardless, it would be incredibly risky to assume he would never recover those memories."

"Risky how?"

"While the fugue state persists, victims feel vulnerable, paranoid, detached. Anger or clinical depression sometimes results. Victims randomly experience strong emotion connected to the forgotten tragedy, which destabilizes their current lives. Depending on the degree of dysfunction, they may not be able to cope and could be institutionalized."

"That would be devastating?"

"Yes. –Hypothetically. And it would be worse to then recover those memories while imagining he had abandoned some duty to his murdered family."

"Dr. Jason Miller said psychiatric counseling sometimes helps if the fugue continues a long time."

Sophie Miller snorted, "With _willing, cooperative patients._ In regards to your hypothetical patient, he wouldn't remember the psychiatrist who treated him after the tragedy, would he?"

Wrung out, not even caring about Miller's cold disdain, she asked quietly, "What's your best advice?"

"Don't let him go. I cannot speak to the law-enforcement dangers. But nothing good will come of coping alone when his memories return. And they will."

"Thank you, Dr. Miller."

"I'm glad you called." With the barest hint of warmth she added, "Be well. Both of you."

Lisbon gently placed the handset in the cradle and slumped in her chair. _No way out._ She swallowed a mouthful of coffee past the lump in her throat. _Unless he gets his memory back soon, it's grim or grimmer. Damn._

She glanced at her watch, then grabbed her things and left for the fire station. _Maybe he's remembered something. Maybe I can give him a nudge._


	5. Chapter 5 - J POV: Test Case

**Chapter 5: Test Case**

A/N: Dialog marked with an asterisk ("*") is directly quoted from The Mentalist Fugue in Red episode.

"Rigsby, I need some air. I'll be over there," Jane nodded toward a bench in the nature area.

"Sure, Jane. Just stay close, okay?"

Jane nodded and ambled off. Rigsby stayed to talk to the shift chief, Toby Rawlins. _Probably has to smooth things over._ He frowned _, Rawlins was supposed to get hitched today. Postponed? Wise if they don't want their wedding forever linked to murder._ The fire station adjoined the fenced nature area. _Likely why I was attacked. Blocked the killer's escape route._ Rigsby not-so-subtly positioned himself with a view of the single way out in front of the station. _Colleagues or captors?_

He approached a clump of EMT's and firemen. Saying his cell phone got ruined reminded them he'd almost drowned last night, deflecting their irritation. He exchanged bills for coins to use in the pay phone. _Dinosaur. Not many left since cell phones got popular._ Jane surprised himself with a surge of regret at having accused the man who'd saved his life. He impulsively offered to take them out drinking to apologize.

Fifteen minutes later Jane was seated on a bench overlooking the pond, back to the fire station. The water glittered placidly in the sunlight as foliage rustled in a slight breeze. _Looks harmless enough._ A chill slid down his spine at a momentary flashback: Under water, struggling helplessly, unable to breathe. He involuntarily inhaled and worked to calm himself. _None of the firemen or EMT's did it. No guilt, 'least not about that. –Should I tell Rigsby? Teresa? Would they believe me?_ He set it aside.

He had failed to reach anyone. _No surprise. Pete and Sam's land-line phone was disconnected. Last I knew, Pete and Sam wouldn't spring for a cell phone but maybe since prices came down..._ He didn't have anyone else's number, if they even kept the same number after he'd left. Calling the public number proved useless. When he got past the recording stating the carnival was closed till spring, the teenager who answered only knew the elder Ruskins had retired. She'd never heard of Angela or Danny Ruskin and Pete, Sam and Biltmore Nicky were unavailable. No way for them to call him back anyhow. _Need to get a cell phone. Need to get a lot of things._ Jane drummed his fingers on his knee. _Blocked again. If this drags on maybe I'll go up to Carson Springs. ... Why can't I remember?!_ His forehead creased in worry. _What_ do _I remember? –Shakespeare, biology, geography, geology – all there. Nothing about me or what I've been doing._ He sighed.

His thoughts drifted to the morning. _So much for balls and bluster._ 'Bluff and bravado' only applied if the act worked. _Law-enforcement legend, eh, not so much. Still, I have some ideas about the crime. Both of them. Why light a fire in nice weather? Why didn't anyone else notice the fitted sweater on the man Satterfield rescued? Same build as the ATM robber too. Ordinary clothing but suspiciously coincidental. But why would he murder his rescuer? ... And what to make of Teresa's team? Rigsby's a prototypic cop. Square, straightforward, amiable._ He smirked at the memory. _Doesn't know how to take me. Pushed him to see how deep this 'colleague' bit goes. Wrong name, drooled all over his girl. Yet when Teresa said I'd be safe with Rigsby damned if I didn't read he'd protect me. Hell, even after I asked how to get to the redhead. Mr. Inscrutable is more complex. Guarded, street smart. Doesn't buy my line of crap, but respects – likes? – me anyhow. How's that work?_ _Gingersnaps is gorgeous. Smart, sweet, but licking her wounds from some betrayal... Terminally earnest, wants to 'save' me. From what? ... Wondered if leering at her would get a rise out of Teresa. What the hell_ _is_ _our relationship?_ He swallowed. _She was disappointed._ He shook his head. _Whole thing is awkward as hell. What am I doing hanging with cops?_ His thoughts were interrupted by sharp, quick footsteps muffled by forest duff. 'Sharp' indicated demeanor; 'quick,' stride and thus height. _Teresa!_ Comfort and a sense of safety eased tension in his shoulders he hadn't even noticed. _All because she came to my bedside?_

Lisbon rounded the bench. "Hey," she greeted. "Feel safe out here alone?" She eyed the pond with a frown.

He dismissed it with a wave. "Fine. None of them did it."

Her expression brightened gratifyingly. Excited, "Really? You're certain?"

He nodded and explained, "Throw them off guard, accuse them of murder, and guilt would be obvious." She didn't bat an eye. He was again unsettled at knowing _less_ than those around him. _Damn my memory._

She sat. "Heard you riled 'em up in there. Sounds like the Jane I know."* Eyebrow quirked, "But you didn't tell Rigsby."

"Hmm.* Didn't know if he'd believe me." _Yeah, Rigsby's so comfortable with me he called for reinforcements._

"Is anything coming back to you?"*

 _Sure._ "Kids prefer cheese over fried green spinach."*

"Come again?"*

"It's an acronym for the seven levels of taxonomy – kingdom, phylum, class, order, family, genus, species."* _And totally useless for solving my current problem._

"Impressive."*

 _Yes it is. How I make my living._ "I can also name the geological time periods, the world's longest rivers by size, and the complete works of Shakespeare. In chronological order."*

"So the memory palace is intact."*

Surprised, "I told you about the memory palace?"* _Never told anyone outside the carnival ... and you're a cop._

Reassuringly, "We're friends."* She paused. "The doctor says it's your emotional memories that are tripping you up. Does anything come back to you? Anything at all?"*

"No."* _Won't whine about bad breaks. Though wish I remembered about_ her _. Us?_

Pointedly looking at his hand as he fidgeted with the gold band, "What do you remember about this?"*

"My wedding ring?"* He ignored dark shadows prowling the edges of thought. "No better way to gain a woman's trust than to wear a wedding ring."* _Instant sympathy – bad divorce, pining for a lost love – romantic nonsense irresistible to female marks._ "Except maybe buy a dog, but who wants that mess?"*

Disbelieving and chiding, "Okay. So you wear a wedding ring to get over on women?"*

"Worked on you."* Affection and distress flitted across her face. _Bulls-eye. Then why hide behind the boss-consultant thing?_

Turning to safer ground, "You remember the house fire we saw on the newscast? It was the only call that the victim responded to the day he was murdered. I'm gonna have Cho go and take a look at the house. I want you to go with him."*

"So it's his turn to babysit me now?"* _though I do want look over that house ... and its owner._

"Well, somebody has to."*

 _Debatable. But, about that fire..._ "Pleasant weather. Has it been like this all week?"*

"I guess. Why?"*

 _So far it holds together._ "Big elephants can always understand small elephants, because, Teresa, because."*

"Oh."* She frowned. "Oh! I get it. It's another acronym."*

"Mm."*

"Hungry?" Lisbon asked, rising.

Instant smile, "You buying?"

"After you eliminated 20 suspects, sure. There's a decent restaurant nearby." As they exited Jane looked around for Rigsby. She volunteered, "Rigsby went back to help with interviews."

They pulled up to a mid-range hotel with an in-house restaurant. Jane followed her to the door and politely held it open. He shepherded her in with his hand lightly on the small of her back. Attraction fizzed through him at the innocent contact. _Whoa. How long has it been anyhow?_ Being lunchtime, there was a short wait. _Ah. Just what I need._

Jane stepped out of line and over to the ATM in the hotel lobby. He fished the debit card from his billfold. _With luck I'll get some cash, see what I have._ He knew he'd have more hidden outside any bank, but that would have to wait till he could remember or visit his – wherever he was staying. Lisbon panicked when she noticed he'd stepped away, then calmed after catching sight of him. Her gaze didn't waver. She relaxed as Jane showed no sign of leaving.

Jane grimaced. _Last try before I'm blocked._ On a whim, he tried Angie's birthday. It was something he wouldn't forget but there was no paper trail that could connect her to him. He exhaled in frustration. _Good going, Paddy. Locked out for 24._ Knowing the pitfalls of ID's and passwords, he'd done an excellent job of thwarting himself. He softly thumped the ATM frame with a closed hand. _Humiliating. One suit to my name and can't even feed myself,_ something he'd done for himself and Alex since becoming the Boy Wonder at age 10. _Have to earn a few bucks till I can get into my bank account. Hm. Have a key, so probably have a car somewhere. Maybe I'm not dead broke – just broke._ He rubbed the back of his neck in frustration and returned to Teresa's side as she reached the front of the line.

At her inquiring glance he commented, "No luck. Out-foxed myself in choosing a password."

Having seen him divine others' passwords dozens of times she couldn't see worrying about it. "You'll get access eventually. –Let's go, our turn."

They followed the hostess and Jane found himself resting a hand protectively on Teresa's far shoulder. He discretely slid into the booth before Teresa turned, saving himself from embarrassment. _How can we be close but not close?_ Despite not knowing why, he reveled in the island of peace and security named Teresa in this now unfamiliar world.

Their server, Kandie, appeared with glasses of water. Lisbon looked up, waiting till she was ready to take the order. "Coffee with cream, burger medium everything on it, fries, and a salad with blue cheese dressing, please." She gave her menu to the server.

"And you, sir?"

"What's sriracha?"

"A spicy sauce. From China I think."

"Your sriracha burger medium-rare, jalapeno jack, tomato and lettuce, rings, and the tortilla soup. And black coffee," he ordered with a smile, relinquishing his menu. The woman returned his smile and flipped her hair, unconsciously coy.

Amused, "Sriracha sauce?"

"It's a whole wide world. Why not try new things?"

"Ever try tea?"

He shrugged diffidently. "Eh. It's okay. –Though I know a girl who drinks only tea."

"Oh?"

"Her mother was – is - English. Whole island's tea-obsessed." His gaze became distant and he smiled slightly. "Angela turns her nose up at tea in the US. Calls it colored water. Or worse." He returned to the present in time to notice a flicker of pain in Teresa's eyes. "What is it?"

Her eyes became flat, unreadable. "Nothing."

He looked at her intently. "All those thoughts related to me."

"Don't flatter yourself."

He leaned forward and put his hand over hers. She straightened but didn't pull her hand away. Voice silky smooth, "Just tell me what I've been doing. Save us both the frustration."

She looked back, green eyes limpid pools. "Doctor's orders. It's important your memories come back on their own."

 _Her mind's made up because she's protecting me. Misguided but hard to resist._ Jane leaned back. "Bah. Frauds in white coats. –You may not believe it, but I know a bit about the human mind."

Her gaze melted into affection, "I do believe it. That doesn't mean Dr. Miller's wrong."

An image of a woman in a white lab coat with long, light brown hair flashed through his mind. _Who?_ He shook it off and relaxed against the seat-back, his eyes trapping hers. He let a lazy smile grow.

Uncomfortable under his steady gaze, "Jane, knock it off." She looked down and started on her meal to escape.

"And why insist on that boss-consultant wall..." he mused aloud.

More sharply than intended, "You should know why."

Severe and pointed, "I _don't_ know why. If I must manage without knowing my past, you cannot fall back on excuses I have no way of knowing." He rubbed his jaw, genuinely puzzled as he regarded her appreciatively, eyes dark. "You're unmarried, not in a relationship. What part of two consenting adults doesn't compute?"

A bite of burger provided a sorely needed moment to think. "It's complicated," she finally said.

"I'll figure it out."

Her look threw off fiery green sparks, "Trust me."

His eyebrows rose at the many-layered meanings of that, how she said it. _Playing a game only I don't know the rules._ His gaze lingered several seconds and then he turned to his own lunch.

A few minutes later he said, "Isn't that Cho?"

She twisted around and scanned the room without seeing him. Turning back, "I didn't–" She frowned at an onion ring now nestled among her fries. "You filched my fries! Buy your own."

He grinned as he popped one into his mouth. "You're buying." With mock hurt, "'Sides, I gave you a ring."

"Damned pain in the ass," she grumbled.

His smile widened, "And _that_ is the first spontaneous, unguarded thing you've said all day." He motioned with his head, "Cho," and took a bite of his burger.

She scowled, "Fool me once–"

"Boss, Jane," Cho said sliding into the booth as Jane made room.

Lisbon laughed out loud as Jane, eyes watering, grabbed his water to quench the burn from the fiery sauce. "Maybe you should try caution."

Cho briefed Lisbon on the case while Jane recovered. Cho nodded in appreciation when she told him Jane thought the EMT's and firemen were cleared. Jane quietly finished everything except the burger. To his amazement he felt comfortable in their company, almost like he used to feel with Pete and Sam, Angie and Danny. After cutting lose from the carnival and being on his own for years he'd forgotten the simple pleasures of friends. _Not that these are friends but something kept me working for the CBI for four years._ They finished lunch. Lisbon had to return to the CBI. He and Cho were off to the burned house.

Jane studied his silent companion as Cho drove them to the burned out house. _Collected, controlled. Invaluable friend, dangerous enemy. Smart_ and _street smart. Competitive, too._ Jane was surprised that Cho's regard for a con man, a grifter would be high enough to bother to compete. _How 'bout that?_ Jane said, "You accept my reading about the firemen," question embedded in the statement.

Cho grunted. "You do it all the time."

Jane looked at him speculatively, "Gang banger turned cop. Ordinarily you'd be the last to work with me."

Paused at a stoplight, Cho turned to look at him directly. "Don't." After a second he added, "It's worked out." He refocused on driving and said not a word till they reached the house.

They disembarked, stretching after the long ride. Cho walked around to the sidewalk and paused, both looking over the burnt out shell.

"You take this side of the street. Find out if the neighbors saw the victim interacting with anyone suspicious during the fire."*

"You want me to go door-to-door like a salesman?"* Jane asked in amused disbelief.

"You do it all the time. You say it's one of the more interesting things about being a consultant,"* Cho replied, deadpan perfect.

Jane grinned in delight at Cho's attempt. "You're a clever one, Mr. Cho, and I'll do your bidding. But first I want to take a look at this burned-out house."* They walked nearer to the civilian talking with the LEO guarding the house cordoned by crime scene tape.

"When can I go inside? I – I need to get in there."*

Cho flashed his badge to the cop. "CBI, what's going on here?"*

The civilian near whined, "They won't let me inside my house."*

The officer rejoined, "It's a standard arson investigation. We'll call him when it's over."*

Higher pitch, desperate. "This is crazy. Why would I set fire to my house? Everything I own is in there. –My kid's childhood–"*

"-No one's accusing you, sir,"* the officer interjected, trying to dampen rising tension.

Jane interrupted genially, "I know you. I – I saw you on the TV. The fireman saved your life."* He extended his hand, "Patrick Jane."* _And you're wearing another fitted sweater. Let's see how you react..._

"Tom Wilcox."* The civilian shook his hand automatically.

Jane burbled on, oddly cheerful at the connection, "I almost died yesterday, too, but, uh, no news cameras. Do you know the man who pulled you from the fire was killed last night?"* he asked, eyes trained on Wilcox's face.

Glum, "Yeah, I read it in the paper. I didn't even get a chance to thank him."*

Cho asked, "Did you see the victim in conflict with anyone during your rescue?"*

"No, I was unconscious the whole time."*

Jane interrupted brightly, "Me too. The guy was behind me with my head under the water,"* Jane explained, mimicking his attacker's actions. Wilcox uncomfortably focused on Cho instead. _Well then, two for two._

"How did you black out?"*

"Well, when the fire jumped the fireplace, I ran upstairs and grabbed all the valuables that I could, but the smoke was too thick, and I couldn't breathe."*

 _That all rings true, another puzzle piece._ "Well, we both cheated death. That – that's just – that's remarkable. You know, we should get t-shirts made up."* _Mr. Inscrutable didn't interrupt my riff, points to Mr. Cho. Maybe I_ can _work with cops._

Getting agitated, "Well, I – I'm glad that you're happy, but I just lost everything that I own. I got my wife and my daughter in a hotel I can't afford. Nothing but the clothes on our backs."*

Practical, Cho suggested, "You can ask your insurance company for an advance on the claim."*

"My house isn't insured. I – I mean it was, but I'm a savings and loan officer, and ever since the banks collapsed, I've been out of work."*

 _Bingo! Motive plus means and opportunity for the ATM job. Something he had to hide from his fireman rescuer?_ Jane masked his delight and decided to invite himself to the Wilcox family. _Lone wolf or family undertaking?_ "Well, let's forget about the t-shirts, then. Uh, Mr. Cho, let's say we give this poor man a ride back to his family. Come on."* Jane was pleased when Cho picked it up seamlessly.

They gave Wilcox a lift to the motel and chatted with his family for awhile. Jane relaxed and focused on Wilcox when it was clear Cho would give him free rein. The daily newspaper had articles on the house fire and murdered fireman, as well as the ATM job. Wilcox subtly reacted to both, as Jane expected. Mrs. Wilcox was a normal, loving wife and mother. Their little girl was kitten-adorable. _Cute kid._ Jane promised to look for her missing dolly at the ruined house, which would provide a convenient excuse to revisit Tom Wilcox if needed. Jane wrote off the pang at seeing the little girl as his usual affection for kids. _Eh. Grow up in a carnival and you either love kids or hate 'em. Do miss that part of it though._ He realized he actually would try to find the doll. _Not the kid's fault her dad's a scumbag._ He knew that first-hand.

Jane's appreciation grew when Cho asked nothing on the way back to the house. _Huh. Not a bad group ... cops notwithstanding._ The officer said the firemen had judged the house structurally sound enough to walk through. They ducked under the tape and nudged the broken door open. Jane waited as Cho gave the downstairs a thorough but fruitless examination. What Jane wanted to see was upstairs. _What was so important Wilcox risked getting burned alive to get?_ They gingerly mounted the stairwell, staying close to the wall where the treads would be strongest despite fire damage. Guest bedroom, bath, girl's bedroom – another pang – and, master suite. Jane entered the master bedroom and poked around. He was attracted to a mound of cloth that was still brightly colored despite smudges of soot.

Cho spoke from the doorway, attention on Jane instead of the room. "What's your play here?"*

"I don't know what you mean."* _Maybe I don't want to know._

"What are you trying to do?"*

"Well, bring a ray of hope to a family, I suppose. And help my friends solve a crime."* _Pat, but true enough._

"I don't buy it."*

 _Why?_

Cho continued, "You don't help us because you like us."*

"I don't like you?"* That was an unexpected splash of ice water. _Actually I do._

"Well, you don't _not_ like us. But you have deeper reasons for helping people. Without those reasons, you're a hustler. –So what's your play?"*

 _And there it is. Cop vs con man, the impossibility of anything real about some 'team.'_ _Conning yourself, Paddy? A few pleasant hours are just ... a few pleasant hours._ "You're wrong about me, Mr. Cho. I do like you."* _True, but..._ "And I can assure you I want to help that little girl find her lost doll."* _True and pointless._

Resigned to not getting a straight answer, "Okay."*

 _What about those 'deeper reasons'?_ Jane stopped and stared. Then he slowly reached toward the brightly clothed doll lying amid the rubble.

"What's wrong?"*

 _Why'd that sound sincere?_ "This doll. It reminds me of something. I can't – I can't quite–"*

"–It's your family."*

Hesitantly, "Yeah, my family. I can't believe I – How could I forget my family?"* _Milk it for all it's worth._

"I'm sorry."*

 _Sincere again. Damn these cops. Screw them, get on with finding the cash._ "Could you give me a minute, please, Mr. Cho?"* Jane asked with just the right amount of pain.

"Sure. I'll wait outside."* Cho stepped into the hall and closed the door.

Cho gone, Jane swiftly found the home safe and tried to figure out the combination, but soon gave it up as too slow. _Find another way. Just ditch my warder._ He silently ran down the rear stairwell and out the back door. He hopped a low fence out back and cut through a few yards to a business strip a few blocks over. He sighed in relief as he slid into the taxi seat. _The sixty I lifted from Rigsby is enough to get me there. Pain in the ass if I have to accumulate another stake, but gotta start somewhere._

"Where to, Mister?"

"Where's the entertainment strip? Nightclubs, bars - up-scale."

"There's a lot around K and L streets, centered around 15th." He eyed Jane in the rear view mirror. "Gay? Dancing? Whaddya after?"

"Straight, mid-range, lots of women. Preferably something with a stage and shows. Not a dance club."

"You got it."

It was nearing the end of the business day. Clubs and bars would be gearing up for evening crowds, a perfect time for him to find the owners around. Jane had the taxi slowly cruise the area, stop when he ID'd a promising spot, and wait till Jane got done talking with the owner or manager. He hit pay dirt the third place. It was up-scale, trendy, a place women would be comfortable coming to, but quiet enough for a psychic act. His bespoke suit got him a chance to speak with the owner, fortunate since he didn't even have business cards. He "read" some flattering details to get the owner interested. Then his promise to triple female attendance in a week – which would more than triple male patrons – got him his shot. The scheduled entertainer, a comedian, had cancelled last minute. The owner promised Jane $300 each for two performances that evening, one at 8 p.m., one at 11 p.m. Keenly aware he had nothing but a few bucks left, he agreed. He'd eat for the next week and even pay back Rigsby (necessary if he wanted to keep working with the cops, avoid having p.o.'d cops on his tail). The pay for future acts would depend on how well Jane drew crowds, so he knew his fortunes would rise sharply once he delivered. That settled, he had the taxi drop him off at the firehouse. Several men from the "B" shift would join him that evening, his treat.

Since there were no calls for fire fighting, Jane sat and traded stories till the second shift was over. He amazed and entertained them with readings (self-edited to be fun) and they entertained him with real-maybe-embellished stories of derring do. They got to the bar an hour before Jane's first act, much to the relief of the owner. The firemen's comments about Jane's psychic abilities created buzz, in turn helping Jane get hyped for the act. A few beers into the evening and everyone was mellow.

It was his tenth and last reading for his first act when he saw Teresa and Gingersnaps enter. He finished the reading pretty much on autopilot, though the crowd would never know. Hugging his last read ensured good word of mouth among women about the new phenom – handsome, accessible, _sensitive_ and psychic. The hug - breasts crushed against his chest while he rubbed the back of the young, grateful, not-bad-looking woman – affected him more than expected. _Geez, this is ridiculous. I need to get laid._ He closed out the act and rejoined his newfound firemen buddies.

Lisbon and Van Pelt pushed through the crowd to their table. "Hi. What are you doing?"*

Offended, "What's it look like? Business."* _How do you think I support myself?_ "Excuse me. May I?"* Jane asked snagging another beer. _Now if she were a little more approachable..._

Gingersnaps reached over and took a card from the table. "This is Rigsby's card."*

"Yeah, just – you know, just until I get my own printed up."* _The beer isn't helping me think. What's their problem anyhow?_

Teresa bearded him. "You said at the hospital that you were dying to help. This is not helping."*

"I am. I'm investigating. I felt bad about the fish stunt I pulled on these boys, so, uh, I decided to take the 'B' shift out for a night on the town. – You know, make sure they're all innocent of murder."* Jane kept talking in hopes something would blunt her annoyance.

"Are they?"*

Jane turned and saluted the men with his beer stein, "They're the best of the best–"*

"–Yep! Yep!"*

"–You are the _man_ , Paddy!"*

"Thank you,"* he answered their inebriated cheering. Jane turned to Gingersnaps, "Oh, by the way, he got the last round. Could you thank him for me?"*

Teresa stated forcefully, "We're going back to the hospital now."*

Jane took another swig. "I'm gonna take a rain check on that,"* far preferring his cheering, friendly firemen to Teresa's chilly voice of disapproval. "I got another show later. You should stick around. I'm best with the late crowd."*

Sarcastically, "Are you gonna make me call backup to get you out of this bar? Because I will do that, ' _Paddy_.'"*

Jane wilted, bowing to the pint-sized, irresistible force. "Gentlemen. The best of the best!-"* He took a last draught and gave a sloppy salute. Teresa grabbed his arm and hustled him out none too gently as the firemen yelled their parting approval.

"–Yeah, buddy!"*

"–Hey, Paddy!"*

"–Salute."*

"–Well said, my man, well said."*

"–Cheers."*

"–Cheers."*

Sandwiched between Lisbon and Van Pelt Jane's hand was conveniently close to Teresa's delicious ass. Lubricated by a few too many beers and unrequited lust, he grabbed her ass only to earn a bruise as she whacked his arm away. He had over an hour in the SUV to sober up and come down from his performing high.

Lisbon had Van Pelt drive on home while she walked Jane up to his hospital room.

Jane tossed his jacket on the chair when they entered the room. "I got it from here. Thanks."*

"I'll see you in the morning."*

"Uh, no. Actually, put a fork in it. I'm done. No more police work."*

"I understand. You can stay in the hospital until you get your memory back."*

He turned to face her, serious. "What if I don't get it back?"* _What if this awkward mess continues? I'm not part of any cop team._ "I talked to my paramedic friends. They told me that all I need to be released from this hospital is the signature from a responsible adult,"* he pulled out a wad of phone numbers written on scraps of paper and chuckled, "and I got some pretty tasty offers tonight. I'm telling you, this wedding ring–"*

"I can make you stay, you know. It's in my power to hold you as a material witness in a murder investigation."*

Entirely sober now, "Why would you do that? You think I can't see what's going on here? You people – you're – you're tiptoeing. You're dancing around some forgotten tragedy. I'm happy now. Just, just let me be happy."*

Lisbon's face fell. Barely above a whisper. "Fair enough. Look, I'll miss you but I'll leave you alone, okay?"*

Jane finished unbuttoning his vest and stripped it off. "Thank you, Teresa. I appreciate it."* He got into the bed and settled face down, back to her.

She swallowed the lump, focused on work to distract from personal disaster. "Any parting thoughts on the murder?"*

"Yeah, I figured out who killed the fireman."*

Surprised, "You did? Who?"*

"Jacket left pocket."* She dug out a newspaper section folded to the photo of the ATM robbery. "Kind of obvious, don't you think?"* he asked, still facing away.

"N-o-o."*

Sleepily, "You need me to spell it out for you?"*

Swallowing annoyance at his condescension, "Yes."*

Muzzily, "I suppose you need me to gift wrap the killer, too?"*

"You usually do."*

"My parting gift to you I will give in the morning. Good night."*

She bundled up his jacket and the article and plopped unhappily in the chair.

"There's room up here,"* he murmured, at which she rolled her eyes unseen.

She left soon after. Jane drifted, mostly asleep. _I'll miss her too. ... No future with cops, bad fit. A fish and a bird ... but where could they live?_ ... He was relieved to have made his decision. He was a con man, would always be a con man. Prove Wilcox did it, get his stake, and move on. Interesting tale to tell, but no regrets.

 _So why don't I feel that way?_


	6. Chapter 6 - L POV: Case Closed

A/N: Though it is possible with OCR, to my knowledge banks do not record the serial numbers of money deposited in or dispensed from ATM's. Artistic license.

* * *

 **Chapter 6: Case Closed**

A/N: Dialog marked with an asterisk ("*") is directly quoted from The Mentalist Fugue in Red episode.

Thoughts of the day swirled restlessly as Lisbon drove home from the hospital. _Jane was trying this morning. He was_ _performing_ _to impress us. It was okay when we talked at the firehouse, lunch was good. I praised his readings of the firemen! I_ know _he wasn't thinking of leaving at that point. What the hell changed so Jane gave up on us? Was I too blunt turning down his ... his overtures? Can't be it. Did Cho say something?_

She turned off the main thoroughfare onto side streets. _Oh, joy, then I find Darcy in my office after lunch. Red John killed Jane's family but she won't drop the idea Jane's working for him. Does she have an ounce of sense? She must've bitched to Wainwright ... or Bertram. I get a lecture from Wainwright about my threatening to go after the FBI if she approaches Jane while he's messed up. A-n-d Wainwright offers to talk to Jane, try out his pop psychology nostrums. Over-educated, too little experience, and no sense at all! They'd make a great couple,_ she thought sourly _._ Lisbon pulled up to her townhouse and parked. She pressed palms against temples, feeling like the throbbing would split her head asunder. _Did Darcy get to Jane, upset him? If I believe Sophie, trying to break Jane about Red John could push him over the edge. What part of 'Jane. Does. Not. Remember. ANYTHING.' can she not understand?_ _–But when? Jane was with Cho, then ducked out. Must have arranged that gig before going to the firehouse. Heard them talking about him reading them... So Darcy probably didn't have contact._ She shook herself out of her musings and gathered her things.

Lisbon bolted the door, threw keys on the foyer table, and unstrapped her Glock. She kicked off her shoes and leaned against the door. After a minute she pulled the drapes closed and went upstairs without turning on a light. The black townhouse perfectly matched her mood.

She stripped and showered, again leaving lights off. Hot water poured over her. The day's uncertain start had disintegrated into disaster. She rubbed shampoo through her hair, trying to rub away the headache that hadn't let up since Darcy. Lisbon heavily stepped out of the shower and dried off. She donned her night tee, brushed her teeth, and pulled damp hair into a ponytail so it wouldn't hopelessly tangle over night.

After setting the alarm she got into bed and tried to settle in. Lack of distraction breeched the last barrier to her deepest fears. _Jane's done with law enforcement. With us. ... Me. What am I gonna do? 'I'm happy now. Just, just let me be happy.' Dear God, I promised to leave him alone. How could I not? He only_ suspects, deduces _the tragedy. The slaughter of his family is worse than anything he could imagine. I've been pulling him away from the edge for years. Every Red John murder, his grief and guilt, every disappointment when we miss. Over and over. Yet he's better. Likes solving cases. Made friends with the team, with me – despite trying to push us away. To 'protect' us. Jackass. Some smiles are real._

Cold fear cut through her. _So he's gonna leave without his memory coming back. But it will. Can he cope? Seems okay, even if he's different from our Jane, the real Jane. What, what if I took up with him? He wants– Crap. He_ wants _sex. Could I build on that, at least keep him in Sacramento? Keep an eye on him, look out for him?_ A voice that sounded remarkably like Sophie Miller disrupted that thought, _And when he realizes he abandoned revenge for fun and games, what then?_ She almost yelled aloud, _What if a perp goes after him or Red John decides to screw with him?_ She swallowed and whispered aloud, "Or worse?"

The ease with which Jane ditched Cho drove home the reality: She couldn't "make" him do anything. Jane had to want to stay. Or she could try tracking him, keeping tabs - and likely fail. There was no keeping him against his will. Exhausted, frustrated and depressed, she caved and took a sleeping pill at 1 a.m.

Lisbon sat in her office finishing paperwork. It had been four months, a week, and two days since Jane left the CBI and disappeared. Life went on. People kept murdering. The SCU kept solving murders. Her phone rang.

"Lisbon. ... Yes, the Red John case is still open. ... The face painted in blood is his signature. Can you email a photo?" She gave her email address and a moment later was looking at an all too familiar symbol painted in blood. "Looks authentic. My team can be in Reno in–" she glanced at her watch, "two hours. ... Anything on the victim?–"

Cho knocked, then entered without waiting. "Boss? Van Pelt got a message from 'Dr. Joe' – Red John!"

Lisbon frowned, trying to listen to both conversations. "–Didn't realize there was another photo." She clicked on the second attachment. Her phone dropped from numb fingers. She clamped her hand over her mouth to keep from screaming or vomiting or both.

"Boss?"

"Red John killed Jane."

Lisbon walked the long, therapeutic-green corridor, dread growing with every step. The psychiatrist stopped at a locked door with a small safety-glass window. He was speaking but Lisbon heard only nonsense words, noise. Peeking through the window her eyes found the figure huddled in a corner, white pants, white socks no shoes ... white straitjacket. The padded room was white, white, white, stark under recessed fluorescent lights. Only the confusion of too-long blond curls relieved the sterility, his skin nearly as pale as the clothing and walls.

"Can I talk to him?"

"You can try. He hasn't said a word in the two weeks since he was admitted."

"Does, does he have to be in the ... straitjacket?"

"For his own safety. He tore his wrist with his teeth. Drew a smiley face in blood."

The two year old erupted in giggles as they tickled their son. Lisbon laughed in delight, not noticing her husband's sudden attention to the newscast. '...special on the serial killer, Red John. We'll go over...' Lisbon lunged for the remote and clicked it off.

Too late.

Jane stared unseeing at the blank screen, breathing heavily, mouth slightly open. He staggered a step and fell into the easy chair, tears streaming down his cheeks. He looked at her with rage and betrayal on his face...

Lisbon bolted upright, shuddering at half-remembered nightmares, groggy from the sleeping pill. She felt her way to the bathroom in the dark, so tired it felt like her bones were melting. She cupped her hand and drank, then splashed water on her face. _Sleep's impossible. Need to figure out what to do._ The sun wasn't even up, but she dressed and made coffee.

It was 7 a.m. when she tapped on his hospital door.

"Come in."

Jane was dressed and up. Lisbon noted the breakfast tray was untouched except for a small plate with crumbs and an empty coffee cup. "Jane, you said you'd help us take down the murderer?" she broached hesitantly.

"Yes I will." He looked tired as he glanced at her affectionately. "He tried to kill me too. I have a personal interest in him going down," he added with a shudder. "How's this work?"

"Com'on, I'll sign you out. Team's coming in early to plan the op."

Lisbon and Jane arrived at the bullpen and were met with three agents' unfriendly stares focused on Jane. Van Pelt looked disgusted, offended even though last night's sleazy behavior hadn't been aimed at her. Rigsby pointedly tossed Jane's $60 IOU on his desk as he walked past. Cho just stared, expressionless. Lisbon checked Jane's reaction. _Nothing. Not even trying,_ and her heart sank. She long ago realized Jane was almost instinctively charming, reflexively engaging. It had become a habit, a default that made his life easier because people liked him. _New record. Everyone p.o.'d at the same time. Won't help keep him here._

Her team assembled around the conference table. "Jane, tell us."

He was all business. "Tom Wilcox is your murderer." The four exchanged glances. "So broke he dropped his house insurance. Motive: Money. Means: An S&L officer who knows security measures for banks and ATM's. Opportunity: Any night an ATM would be stocked with cash." Coldly, "I was right about him being an amateur."

Rigsby challenged, "That's the ATM robbery. The fireman?"

"Wilcox put the ATM money in an upstairs safe. It was a warm morning. He lit a fire to burn the evidence - his clothing and lucha libre mask. When the fire got out of control, he rushed upstairs to get the money. Maybe he forgot he had the mask in his hand, maybe he took it because it didn't completely burn. Passed out from the smoke. Enter our victim, Fireman Satterfield."

Cho picked it up, thinking it through as he spoke. "Satterfield rescued Wilcox, but Wilcox was afraid the fireman saw the mask. The mask would link him to the ATM job. Robbery and murder since the security guard died."

Van Pelt added, "We need one or the other to connect Wilcox to the robbery. –The mask's distinctive and banks just started recording serial numbers of the money used to stock ATM's."

Rigsby, no longer antagonistic, "But how do we connect him to Satterfield's murder?" He swallowed and almost looked apologetic, "Or the attack on you?"

Relaxing a trifle Jane answered, "Wilcox is no hardened criminal. If he's nailed for the ATM job he'll confess to Satterfield's murder, especially if you offer a lighter sentence or something."

Cho offered, "Maybe we should get bloodhounds to search that nature area for the knife or anything Wilcox might have dropped. We have Wilcox's scent for them to home in on. –Or, it might be in the pond. Small body of water, divers might find it."

Puzzled, Jane asked, "What good is that?"

Patiently, "Fingerprints may survive immersion in water, especially for a short period. Worth a shot."

"Ah."

Lisbon spoke for the first time, "You're sure it's Wilcox?"

"Absolutely."

"Okay. Ideas for locating the money or mask?"

Surprisingly, Jane offered. "Let me talk to him – alone, before any arrest. Act now. He'll leave after he gets the money from his house safe."

A crease appeared between her eyebrows. "Not with a murderer."

Jane shrugged. "I'll approach him at the motel. He has a young daughter. Doubt he'd have a gun around her. And what's he going to do? Shoot me in broad daylight in a motel parking lot?"

She frowned at him. "He wouldn't be the first _amateur_ to panic and do something stupid–"

Smoothly, "-Which is all the more reason to do it my way. I can control the interaction, control him."

"Okay." Decision made, "Van Pelt, call SacPD and verify Wilcox was allowed into his house. Also check with the motel, make sure he's still there and ask what the check-out time is. Then organize a search for the knife soon as we get a piece of clothing from Wilcox. Cho, Rigs, get ready for the take-down. Jane, I want you to wear a bulletproof vest and a wire–"

"-No. Ruins it Wilcox notices."

She took a breath. "-Jane-"

Intensely, "I have a stake in this. He walks if we can't find the money or mask. Do it my way."

After a long moment, "Okay. Jane, we'll be stationed around the lot. We need a signal when to move in. –Run your right hand through your hair?" Jane nodded. Severely, "And if there is even a hint of threat, yell and get the hell outta there."

He grinned, "Yes, Mother," and her chest hurt at the teasing response she had so missed the last few days.

Forty-five minutes later and it was all over. Wilcox was arrested with $37,000 in a duffel bag. The team returned to the CBI. Lisbon went to her office to check phone messages and surreptitiously call Dr. Miller. Cho and Rigsby escorted Wilcox to an interrogation room and left him to worry a bit. Van Pelt quickly confirmed that several serial numbers matched the stolen ATM money, though about twice as much had been stolen as was in the bag. That information was gold that the men would use to good advantage in breaking Wilcox. Van Pelt took an item of Wilcox's clothing and left to start the hunt for the knife in the nature area. Jane disappeared for several minutes, only to join Lisbon in the observation room as Cho and Rigsby started their interrogation. Jane watched Cho closely, admiring his skill, then turned to Lisbon.

"Gift wrapped with a bow, my parting gift."

Her heart clenched painfully, though she worked mightily not to show it. "You need to go back to the hospital."

He frowned, "Why?"

"Get Dr. Miller to release you. You'll need a 'responsible adult.'"

Jane half smiled, "And I care if Miller releases me because?"

"He'll have the PD initiate a search if he thinks you're a danger to yourself."

"You're kidding."

"Out of my hands. Do you _want_ every PD in the country looking for you?"

He closed his eyes for a moment, clearly considering it a nuisance. "Okay." He turned.

"Wait." He paused. "Stop by after. Paychecks are delivered Friday afternoon."

It was his turn to frown. "Can't it be electronically deposited?"

"Sure. Once you set it up. Couple hours in HR and two-week lead time."

He sighed. "I'll stop by after Miller." He left.

Lisbon sank onto a chair while monitoring the interrogation with half her attention. She'd given Miller a heads up about Jane in desperate hope he could convince Jane to stay. That didn't have great odds. _If Miller doesn't succeed, then what?_ _I promised Jane. And I am going to break that promise. God help me, I cannot see any way around Jane having to remember._ She was nauseated knowing she would soon deliver him back to guilt and grief and obsession. Not remembering would be worse.

Wilcox confessed to the ATM job a scant fifteen minutes after Cho and Rigsby revealed the serial number evidence. He refused to say anything about Satterfield until Van Pelt returned with a glove the dogs had found in the forest. She still had hope the divers would find the knife in the pond. Cho pressed and Wilcox confessed to murdering Satterfield. Thoroughly unnerved, he even admitted trying to drown Jane.

Wilcox sullenly added, "If I'd finished the job with that sonofabitch I'd be half way to Montana."

Rigsby looked up from his notes. Mildly, "Care to rephrase that?"

Angry, combative, "Hell no. That guy took half the ATM money. Crooked as hell. You should be ashamed of working with a thief."

Cho said expressionlessly, "That's rich coming from a murderer. Maybe you'd just _like_ to smear him since he nailed you."

"You're all dirty cops, you–"

Rigsby roughly hauled him to his feet. "We're done listening to you." He handed him off to the uniformed officer outside the door.

The three agents gathered in the bullpen, relaxing a moment after having closed the case before starting their write-ups. Wilcox's accusation hung in the air.

Rigsby, "You don't think–"

Cho shook his head without saying anything, not "no" but "don't know."

Van Pelt said, "Jane wouldn't, I mean after all these years... Our _real_ Jane wouldn't."

Reaching into his drawer for a bag of chips, "Where _is_ Jane anyhow?"

Lisbon walked up at that moment. Neutrally, "Jane is getting the hospital to release him. He'll stop by after."

The redhead frowned prettily in confusion, "'Stop by'? He's taking the rest of the day?"

"He says he's done with law enforcement."

"But – but–"

Cho weighed in, "Boss, it's not safe. He still doesn't remember."

Lisbon first looked at Cho, then at the other two. "I am open to suggestions." After a moment, she turned and went back to her office. She had a call to make, this time to the _other_ Dr. Miller.


	7. Chapter 7 - J POV: Changing His Mind

**A/N: Chapter 6 was posted on 6/27. Please read that first.**

* * *

 **Chapter 7: Changing His Mind**

A/N: Dialog marked with an asterisk ("*") is directly quoted from The Mentalist Fugue in Red episode.

Tossing restlessly in his sleep, Patrick Jane rolled against the cool, tubular metal safety sides of the hospital bed. His hand unconsciously curled around the smooth steel rail.

The ride whisked them into the black sky. Carnival lights shone below. The cacophony of children's shouts and laughter, music from rides and attractions, and clanking gears softened to a murmur. Even the ubiquitous smell of cotton candy, popcorn, and fast food dispersed in the night breeze. Patrick held the side of the Ferris wheel gondola with his right hand. His left arm draped along the back, just above Angie's shoulders. She was barely visible in the darkness, her presence revealed more by warmth, laughter, and fragrance. Their car rocked and the metal safety bar caught – then gave way. He grabbed for her but clutched only air. She plunged a hundred feet to a terrifying rendezvous with death—

-Her screams ringing in his ears, Jane jerked upright, chest tight, covered in sweat, trembling. He gasped, disoriented, then lurched to his feet and into the bathroom. He heaved beer and greasy snacks and bile into the sink until his stomach was empty, then dry heaved some more. Spent, he weakly fell onto the closed toilet seat, still shaking. After a seeming eternity, he blew his nose, rose, rinsed the sink and splashed water on his face. He dried his face and shuffled back to the bed. Light seeped around the drawn blinds, bathing the hospital room in twilight. He pulled the covers over himself, chilled to his emotional core. Desperate efforts to _not know_ were tissue against the razor of logic.

 _Wedding ring to get women. When have I needed a prop? The flash of pain when I mentioned Angie to Lisbon. Ten years after I was going to get Angie... Cho's, 'It's your family.' Divorce? Let it be divorce ... only then Cho wouldn't react that way. Car accident? No scars on me. Oh,_ god, _'Serious Crimes Unit.' What's more serious than murder? I don't have to know, own this. I'm young, young enough. Start over, start a – new – family. If I don't remember, it isn't part of me. Just let me be happy! Four years with cops, why four? Unless the murd–_ He slammed the mental door before that shattering thought fully formed. It bulged alarmingly, evil about to explode into his mind, powerful blows warping the surface, threatening to break free. _C-o-w-a-r-d_ , his mind's voice mocked, joined by loathed memories of Alex, _'You're soft, boy, a mark. You can't afford to care'..._

A hundred rivers, geologic time periods, levels of taxonomy, Shakespeare – _no, too bloody, stick with facts_. He summoned a relentless storm of dry data to distract and distance himself. Finally, nothingness claimed him on page 42 of a memorized phone directory.

Jane slept badly till morning. Breakfast was coffee and a slice of buttered cinnamon bread to settle his tender stomach. He found a bag with a fresh shirt and underwear that Teresa must have left the night before ( _Where the hell am I staying?_ ), and dressed. He had promised to wrap up the investigation, and so waited for her to fetch him. Today would end his ill-conceived venture into law enforcement. The night had hardened his resolve. He could see no benefit to _ever_ remembering what logic dictated must be true. It didn't have to be part of him. _It won't be._

Teresa Lisbon was early, 7 a.m. She and Jane left with without delay. Jane was relieved to avoid Dr. Miller and his earnest proselytizing about what was best for him. His decision was made. They soon arrived at the CBI. Tommy waved them through the security gate. Teresa said, "Hi," Jane just nodded, distracted as he scanned the parking lot. A flash of blue caught his eye and he smiled. _Ah! Favorite color. What're the odds cops would go for something classy, beautiful? Foreign make. Like I thought, my car was here when they hauled me to the hospital._ He looked over his shoulder as they drove past. The Citroen now gleaming in the sun would be in shaded after noon, exactly as he would have planned.

Jane and Lisbon got off on the SCU floor. He went directly to the conference table while Lisbon detoured to her office. Gingersnaps glared. Rigsby conspicuously tossed the IOU on his desk. Cho stared inscrutably. _Like I care what a bunch of cops think._ He was still broke since they'd hustled him out of the bar before getting paid. _If I'm feeling generous I'll mail Rigsby his sixty from Wilcox's ill-gotten gains._ He'd have to launder the money first to avoid getting nabbed through serial numbers. _Maybe a day at the casino._

Lisbon joined them and they began. Jane laid out his theory that it was Wilcox. He was a little surprised, a little gratified when they took him seriously, believed him. Yesterday on his way to the fire station, Jane had bought a lucha libre mask which sported the same colors as the ATM robber's mask. It would be easy to scam Wilcox. He needed to avoid having the cops overhear their conversation and then hide the cash till it was off his person. It was embarrassingly easy. _Were they that naive? Gingersnaps and Rigsby, maybe. Teresa and Cho, certainly not. Trust?_ He snorted softly, _Talk about misplaced._ His stomach roiled uncomfortably.

As with all well-planned scams, the actual execution was a let-down. It unfolded seamlessly. Backing away from Wilcox's van, Jane watched in delight as the four agents surrounded and arrested Wilcox. He caught sight of the stricken, confused faces of the wife and daughter. Grimly, _That's on_ _him_ _. Two time – almost three-time – murderer. Fool loses everything by adding murder to robbery._ He did his best to shrug off the disaster Wilcox had visited upon the innocent woman and child. The three agents took Wilcox in one SUV while Jane rode back with Teresa.

Cho and Rigsby took Wilcox to an interrogation room, Teresa disappeared in her office, and Gingersnaps left with Wilcox's handkerchief for the bloodhounds. _Do they really use bloodhounds?_ Jane shrugged, rose, and casually walked toward the men's room. Once out of sight he took the elevator down and strolled to the Citroen, grinning when the car key from his pocket unlocked the doors. Trunk lid up, he was well-hidden from passers-by. _Now, if I haven't gotten lazy and sloppy in my old age – yes!_ He found the nearly invisible seam where the interior fabric lining had been cut and re-fastened with Velcro. He gently parted the fabric and unloaded the eight inch-thick bundles of twenties – $37,000 plus – into the narrow cavity in the sheet metal frame near the wheel well. He took a quick look around the car. An over-night bag had a mix of fresh and used clothing, neatly segregated in plastic bags. He glanced at the vial of prescription sleeping pills but avoided thinking about why he might need them. The glove box revealed a rent receipt for a no-name, extended-stay motel. _Need to get my stuff – at least the suits – before leaving Sacramento. Better get back upstairs before someone notices._

Jane joined Lisbon in the observation room as Cho and Rigsby started their interrogation. Jane had really wanted to see Cho work this. _As expected. Mr. Inscrutable has Wilcox quaking in his boots._ He huffed in amusement. _'Hardened criminal' – not! Guy's near bawling._ He turned to Lisbon.

"Wrapped up with a bow, my parting gift." _Out-witted the perp, nailed the guy who tried drowning me ... showed Teresa and the three Musketeers._ _Why doesn't this feel better?_

"You need to go back to the hospital."

 _Oh, please, give it up!_ "Why?"

"Get Dr. Miller to release you. You'll need a 'responsible adult.'"

 _To hell with that._ "And I care if Miller releases me because?"

"He'll have the PD initiate a search if he thinks you're a danger to yourself."

 _Crap. Don't want attention with the stolen money!_ "You're kidding."

"Out of my hands. Do you _want_ every PD in the country looking for you?"

He closed his eyes for a moment. _Better take care of this. Call and see which party girl will come with me._ "Okay." He turned.

"Wait." He paused. "Stop by after. Paychecks are delivered Friday afternoon."

 _More delay. Cripes._ "Can't it be electronically deposited?"

"After you set it up. Takes a trip to HR and a couple weeks' lead time."

 _Boxed again if I want the money._ His curiosity got the better of him, wondering just how much solving cases was worth. _Guess an encore isn't the end of the world._ He sighed. "I'll stop by after Miller." _Why am I relieved I'll see Teresa again? Make up your mind, Paddy._

Back in the bullpen Jane pulled the wad of scrawled phone numbers and names from his pants pocket. He called Emily, Brandii and Caitlynn before finding that Tamara was available because she worked nights at a bar. He strove to brush away the beer haze from his recollection – _Why did I drink so much?_ – and finally brought up a mental image linked to the name. He smiled slightly, relieved she was attractive. There would be no pain in spending time with her. She agreed to pose as a distant cousin to loosen the medical coils and he had every intention of demonstrating his gratitude with a good time, perhaps by spending the weekend in Reno together.

Jane slid into the Citroen, curious about why he had chosen this particular car, especially since it was old. _Should I say 'classic'? Have to look up what it goes for._ He grinned as he drove. It _was_ a sports car after all and handled nimbly. A little experimenting revealed some intriguingly advanced technology. He first stopped at the extended stay motel. The parking lot and outside were in good repair, but utterly unadorned, utilitarian. Drab. _What the hell? Judging by my suit, I've been making good money. Why would I stay here?_ The inside of his apartment – _room, really_ – was more disappointment. It was small and functional and impersonal. He shook his head in confusion, then set about gathering his things. He packed the limited selection of clothes – _all I wear is these three-piece jobs, now? -_ toiletries and a few dozen books. He snorted at the tea kettle and left it.

The unappealing motel scuttled his first impulse, which was to bring Tamara back to his place so they could get to know each other. He decided the good time would wait till Reno. He stopped at a jewelry store and bought a diamond bracelet for cash. It would be both a "thank you" for bailing him out and a promise of the weekend to come. He had over a grand left from the one bundle of twenties, which would be enough for dinner, the trip to Reno and a really nice hotel room. Then he could hit the tables and make the remaining hot money legit.

Jane picked her up from a decent but inexpensive part of town. He glanced around her apartment while she finished her make-up. _Romance novels, pop music, celebrity magazines, family pictures. Not a lot in common, but no matter for a few days._ She slung her purse strap over her shoulder and clung to his arm as she slipped one three-inch heel on and then the other.

"All ready," she said with a smile. Before he turned away she surprised him with a kiss to his cheek. "I'm thrilled you called. You were so good last night helping all those women. –Oh, and one guy."

"Thanks." His smile seemed to be reply enough.

In the car he ran over the bare details of his missing memory, careful not to reveal how many years were missing.

She noticed his wedding ring. "Were you married?"

"I, uh, I think so. But no one came to the hospital when I almost drowned. Must have broken up a long time ago," he said with the right amount of pathos.

"You poor man. Patrick, I'm so sorry."

Sympathy when he didn't even remember the – the loss was a step too far. "It's okay, Tamara–"

"–Tamara," she said firmly, correcting the accented syllable.

"Ah, sorry. I truly don't remember. –But that's why I need you to help me at the hospital. I need you to be my 'responsible adult.' Pretend I'm a distant cousin and we recently reconnected."

She frowned, "I'm not gonna have to be, like, really responsible or anything? I mean once you're done with the hospital."

"No, nothing like that. In fact, if you're free, I'd like you to come to Reno with me for the weekend. Nice hotel, gambling, a few shows, whatever."

"I'd love that!" was punctuated with another kiss.

They arrived and took the elevator to the neurology floor. When Tamara kissed Jane's cheek in the elevator Jane rolled his eyes. "Remember you're my _cousin!_ No PDA's among family members. Just follow my lead and play along."

Tamara giggled, "Sorry, I forgot. You're hard to resist."

Jane chose to smile as the least disruptive response he could manage. _Upset her and it'll make it worse. Com'on, kitten, you can do this._ ... _Teresa or Gingersnaps wouldn't need coaching. Oh well._

Dr. Miller seated them in his office. Eyebrows raised, "Agent Lisbon isn't joining us?" Jane shook his head. Tamara looked confused. Miller took a breath and began. "Mr. Jane, it's important you fully understand your situation before making plans." He glanced at Tamara. "You are willing to share your medical details with Ms. – Ms.–"

She smiled and answered, "Tamara Schneider."

Hearing her last name for the first time, Jane hid a mental wince – _what were her parents thinking?_ He said smoothly, "Yes. Tamara's a distant cousin. We recently reconnected and she'll be my 'responsible adult.'"

Miller looked over Schneider obviously noting the sexy dress, heels, and utter lack of family resemblance. Dryly, "I see. Mr. Jane, choices you make before regaining your memories likely will differ markedly from what you would choose if fully informed. If it's an issue, you can work with any physician of your choice–"

"No. I just want to get on with my life."

"I'll gladly provide recommendations for psychiatrists in Sacramento."

"Thank you, no."

"Will you be continuing with the CBI? You seem to have a close working relationship with Agent Lisbon."

A fleeting hint of uncertainty crossed his face before he evened out his expression to bland confidence. "I've determined the CBI is not a good fit."

Miller leaned back and considered him, eyes narrowed.

 _Uh oh, here comes the hard sell._

Quietly, "How can you possibly know without remembering? I understand you have been a CBI consultant for four years. That sounds like a successful relationship-" _Damn, really hard sell. Hitting below the belt, doc?_ "–the loss of which you may regret later."

Sharply, coldly, "I am convinced my future does not lie with law enforcement."

Miller looked at him with frustration and sympathy, "When you regain your memory you will need the support of people who care about you." His gaze flicked to Schneider and dismissed her. "The human mind does not lightly protect itself with a fugue interlude. The tragedy you are blocking is significant for you. And, yes, you _will_ eventually remember." He faintly emphasized "tragedy" and Jane realized Miller had done research, somehow learned more about _him_. _Dammit all to hell, I hate everyone knowing more about me than I do!_

Schneider sweetly piped up, "I'll help him. He's a super special guy."

Miller's look was frosty but not unkind. "Will you really, Ms. Schneider? You have experience helping people who have suffered great loss? You'd know how to respond to anger, confusion and depression?" Mouth slightly open, she looked scared. Kindly, "You don't need to answer. Rhetorical questions." He looked piercingly at Jane, his real target.

Jane said precisely, "I have considered my situation. _I_ believe my plans are best for me. My cousin Tamara satisfies your requirement for a 'responsible adult' and I choose to sever our patient-physician relationship. Is there anything more you need?"

Miller looked distressed rather than angry. "Once I get Ms. Schneider's signature, neither I nor Sacramento General will pursue any further connection. I strongly recommend you seek therapy. I strongly advise against making major changes till you regain your memories." He slid a release form to Schneider. After she signed he stood and extended his hand, first to Schneider and then to Jane.

Warmer now, "Thank you, Dr. Miller. I'll be fine."

Miller held his hand a second longer than normal and said simply, "Good luck, Mr. Jane."

Jane and Schneider left the hospital. Jane guided her to a bench under some trees at the entrance and sat down.

Confused, "Patrick, why are we sitting here?"

He smiled, "I have something for you."

"A surprise! I love surprises."

"Well, I hope you like this one. –What's your favorite kind of jewelry?" _Obvious from the rhinestone earrings._

Coyly, "They always say diamonds are a girl's best friend."

"Yeah, I heard that somewhere." He was sure the irony was lost on her. "Here–" he said, handing her a flocked jewelry box. "Think you'll like this."

She squealed as diamond facets reflected dazzling flashes of sunlight. "It's beautiful! I love it!" She pulled him close, hugging and kissing him.

Gently disentangling himself, "Here, let me put it on." He draped the heavy bracelet over her wrist and fastened the safety clasp.

"It even looks real!"

"It _is_ real," he smiled, enjoying her infectious excitement. It had been a while since expensive toys evoked that much pleasure for him. But he did enjoy the reaction of others. It didn't hurt that she was easy on the eyes. She cuddled up. Jane shifted so she was nearly sitting on his lap, enjoying her soft, warm curves, her body plastered to his. Eyes closed, he found himself imagining Teresa's lithe body against him, her lips– They jumped apart at the noisy roar of mowers and leaf blowers as landscapers began their work. They shared a grin. Sheepishly, Jane wordlessly shepherded her back to the Citroen.

Jane explained he needed to make a quick stop at the CBI. Tamara was excited to learn he used his psychic abilities to catch criminals – a stark contrast with Teresa's reaction. _Teresa actually_ sees _me, doesn't buy the illusion._ Tamara subsided, more interested in finding a pop music station on his radio. She rattled on about her favorite groups and songs and TV shows, which reinforced his sense of dislocation. He hadn't heard of any of them. Their conversation absorbed a small fraction of his attention while practicalities loomed large. _What the hell am I doing? Should be putting miles between them and me. Not a chance Wilcox didn't tell them about the money._ They passed through the security gate. _Huh. Maybe showing up will undermine Wilcox's story since it makes no sense to be here if I'm guilty. 'Sides, I need a clean break, show them I'll be fine without any straight-edge cop nannies. Show them I have everything a man could want._ He squeezed Tamara's hand.

The CBI security guard eyed Jane curiously as he got a visitor's pass for Tamara. Jane sensed the guard's gaze as they walked to the elevator and enjoyed the familiar feeling of other men's envy.

Jane and Tamara got off the elevator and he escorted her to the bullpen, arm in arm.

The couch in a corner tugged at him somehow. "I've always wanted a couch like that."* They paused near the SCU's cluster of desks where all four members were working. Everyone eyed the 20-something woman gracing his arm. Arm candy or more?

"Hi, who's this?"* Teresa asked as they approached, looking his companion up and down.

Somehow, Teresa's skeptical once over embarrassed him a little for the youthful girl, all surface, no substance. "Oh, this is my 'responsible adult' – Tamara."*

The girl corrected him, "Ta'-mara,"* and hung on his arm looking cute.

Teresa acknowledged her existence, "Hi,"* then ignored her. "Well, you did it. You caught a killer, and we got back most of the stolen cash."*

"Most?"* he asked with fake consternation.

"Wilcox was missing some of the money. He said you took it, but we didn't believe it."*

Jane ignored the painful pang and advised smoothly, "I'd look for an accomplice. That's a big job to pull off alone."*

Disbelief saturating her voice, "We'll do that."* She pulled a folded paper from her jeans and handed it to him. "Oh, by the way, your last paycheck."*

Jane unfolded it. " _That's_ my payment?!"* _Chump change. Not worth my time._

Dryly, "You weren't exactly in it for the money."*

He ignored the flashing neon unvoiced question - _Why was I in it then?_ "Well, I'll confess to a vague satisfaction in taking down someone that thought they were smarter than me. But not enough to wanna stick around here."* He waved the check for emphasis, "Certainly not for this,"* not caring he probably insulted every person in the room.

"All right. Well, let me know if you change your mind, or – you know – get it back,"* Teresa said, snarking, reminding him of his loss.

– _How much did I lose?_ His reply brooked no doubt, "Some doors are best left shut."* He raised his voice, "Uh, everyone else, I – I'd just like to say thank you. I'm sure we've shared some great times together. I'm not presently qualified to comment, so I'm just gonna make like a rock and roll. Bye."* He moved to lead Tamara toward the elevator.

Gingersnaps frowned, spying the bracelet. "Wait! That looks real."*

Lisbon glanced too, "Sure does."*

Tamara burbled happily, " _You_ weren't lying!" She pressed against Jane's chest and kissed him on the lips.

Gingersnaps, stunned and upset, "You took it. Wilcox wasn't lying. You really took it."*

"I'm sure I have no idea what you're talking about. I – I'm late for my new life."*

Cho challenged him, "Okay, when did you grab the cash?"* disappointment bleeding through deadpan.

Rigsby's open face showed regret and dashed admiration.

Jane's eyes flicked among the SCU agents. He blustered, "Oh, please, does it really matter? I mean, you people are the highway robbers. Look at this paycheck!"* He avoided everyone's eyes. This wasn't the sneering disdain of dislike and superiority he expected from cops. Instead, it was the hurt and disappointment of betrayed ... friends. _Jesus, could they really be friends?_ His gut tightened at the thought he was leaving his only connection to anything.

Gingersnaps took another go at him, "We could have you arrested for grand theft,"* her tone a blend of outrage at the crime and fear of the risks he'd stupidly courted.

Clinging to his indifference, "There's not a jury in the world that would convict me. I'm out of my mind,"* he mugged. "Ask my doctor!"*

Teresa's quiet statement stopped him cold. "You're running away."* He dared to look at her. The challenge didn't quite mask hurt and empathy.

"What are you talking about?"* he asked with a sinking feeling that he was found out. The people he'd written off as contemptuous cops might really _see_ him, know him ... care about him?

"You're starting to feel something inside and you don't know what to do with it,"* she pressed, following up her advantage.

"That's nonsense,"* glib explanations deserting him.

"Prove it. Take a ride with me. If you still want to leave after that, you can."*

The trap snapped shut. He was no longer sure what he wanted, had misjudged this team of cops, had knowingly put himself at risk by coming back. Astonished, he realized, _The last thing I want is to walk away from Teresa._ Tamara tugged his arm impatiently as the SCU team closed ranks _around_ him, not against him.

"Patrick, are we going?"

Jane shook his head, coming back to the present. Distractedly, "I'm sorry, Tamara. I, I need to resolve this with Teresa." He pulled a wad of bills from his pocket and handed it to her without counting. "Here, take a cab."

Frowning, she asked, "What about Reno? Call me later?"

Jane just shook his head. "No. Thank you for coming to the hospital with me," and turned his back.

Van Pelt grimaced at his rudeness, cutting in its complete indifference. "I'll help you catch a cab," she offered, guiding Tamara to the elevator by her elbow.

Jane stood there, total attention on Teresa, all control relinquished to her.

"I'll get my stuff. It's a long drive." Lisbon looked at Cho and Rigsby, unspoken instructions plain that they were to make sure Jane went nowhere. As she brushed past she told Cho, "Tell Wainwright I'm taking personal time. –Wrap up the Satterfield case."

Relieved that she was tackling the mess with Jane, "Will do, boss."

"Thanks. Wish me luck."

They were en route five minutes later.


	8. Chapter 8 - L & J POV: Remembering

**Chapter 8: Remembering**

A/N: Dialog marked with an asterisk ("*") is directly quoted from The Mentalist Fugue in Red episode.

Lisbon and Jane walked out of the observation room. Cho had broken Wilcox, the rest was details.

"So you're going to the hospital, get Miller to release you?"

"Seems I have no choice," Jane answered with a shrug.

Lisbon stopped by the break room for coffee. She could see Jane making calls on a bullpen phone. _Ah. Cell's ruined. Has to dig up some fawning female to be his 'responsible adult.'_ After the Wilcox take-down she had given Dr. Jason Miller a heads up about Jane's intentions. She desperately hoped he could change Jane's mind. But doubted it. After Jane left she went to her office. _Said he'd be back for his paycheck. My last chance._

She took a deep breath and placed the call, again on speaker. It was answered on the second ring.

"Dr. Miller."

"This is Agent Lisbon. I need your advice."

"Just a moment." Lisbon heard Sophie Miller speaking in the background, a door closing, then silence. "Bring me up to date."

"Jane is getting Dr. Jason Miller to release him."

"Into whose care? Did he recover his memory?"

Lisbon quelled her irritation at being interrogated. "He pretty much figured it out but doesn't actually remember." She almost missed Miller's murmured, "He would." "Jane's quitting the CBI."

"And?"

"I want to take him to Malibu."

After a second, "Hope the murder scene triggers his memories?"

"Yes." Grimly, "Will it work? Will it be better than him remembering alone?"

Probing, "Is the house still empty? With that - symbol on the wall?"

Quietly, "He sometimes sleeps on a mattress under the smiley face. It keeps him focused on hunting Red John."

Cool, detached. "Some might say 'obsessed.' Even after killing Timothy Carter?"

"He's convinced Carter wasn't Red John."

Meticulously professional, "Is there objective reason to believe that?"

"Yes. Evidence went missing after Jane shot Carter. And the recent murder of serial killer SJK was Red John's MO."

"How is he handling killing the wrong man?"

Expressionless. "Carter said he was Red John, taunted Jane with how his wife and daughter smelled when they died. The Carters were raping and torturing a girl chained in their basement. Remains of eight victims were found on their property."

"So morally justified in his eyes. Guilt?"

Lisbon sighed. "Only about his family, failing to get Red John. –About my plan?"

Thoughtfully, "It should work. Regaining a decade of traumatic memories will be confusing and destabilizing. The best reaction would be anger, lashing out verbally–"

" _'Best'?"_

"The alternative is depression. Worse."

"Why?"

Miller answered clinically. "Depression is harder to counteract. Imagine your _hypothetical_ survivor alone with his grief and guilt after the funeral. Six months later neighbors discover him catatonic, totally focused on the event. Reaching him, engaging his mind to work through the emotions and thinking required powerful drugs and months of intensive counseling. The physical release of anger is preferable."

Lisbon swallowed. "What should I do?"

"It's promising that he's close to remembering. His subconscious deems him strong enough to deal with the tragedy–"

Tired of the politically correct, the euphemism society demanded, Lisbon interrupted harshly, "–The _murders_ , a deliberate criminal act. It wasn't some accident or natural disaster."

Not quite apologizing, "My wording was imprecise. Regardless, remembering with a supportive friend is much better than alone. Help him express the emotions and thoughts rather than internalize them ... again."

Lisbon almost whispered, "I'm not trained. Can I really help him?"

Miller replied slowly, tone softer. "Short of psychiatric intervention, you may be the _best_ person to help. Hunting Red John for years and killing Carter show he should have remained in treatment. I failed him in that. From what I observed, you're the reason Patrick is healing and can cope with daily exposure to homicides."

Lisbon blinked at the unexpected compliment. "Oh."

"His grief will be fresh when he remembers. But the intervening years and experiences will help blunt the event. He'll have your support, perhaps your team's. That's far more than he had after the murders."

Her chest hurt, a seemingly permanent lump caught in her throat at the thought of what Jane had faced alone. "Thank you, Doctor Miller."

"Call me at 323-555-5371 if his reactions are more than you can handle. I can be in Malibu in an hour. –Good luck."

"Thank you." She gently replaced the handset. Hope fought fear. _What am I taking on?_

The next few hours were spent wrapping up the Satterfield case and inducting Wilcox into the justice system. Lisbon received Van Pelt's report on some money missing from the S&L robbery without comment. Cho and Rigsby passed along Wilcox's accusation that Jane took the money. She set it aside. Paychecks were delivered after noon by inter-office mail and she waited and told herself Jane would be back. _The paycheck piqued his curiosity. And he promised..._ The team was going over the S &L case when Jane appeared. _Finally!_

Lisbon straightened as Jane and a young woman approached the bullpen.

She ignored the stab of pain. _Really, Jane?_ "Hi, who's this?"* _Tight dress, cleavage, killer heels, all of, what, 22? You'll flay yourself alive when you remember your family._

Smugly, "Oh, this is my 'responsible adult' – Tamara."*

The girl corrected him, "Ta'-mara,"* with nothing more to offer than looking cute.

Lisbon bit back her reaction, said, "Hi,"* then focused on Jane. "Well, you did it. You caught a killer, and we got back most of the stolen cash."* _Can't you see you're good at this?_

"Most?"* Transparent, fake.

 _Damn._ "Wilcox was missing some of the money. He said you took it, but we didn't believe it."* _You're better than a cheap thief._

"I'd look for an accomplice. That's a big job to pull off alone."*

 _Lying through your teeth! What are you thinking?_ "We'll do that. Oh, by the way, your last paycheck."* She handed him the folded slip of paper.

He blurted in disbelief, " _That's_ my payment?!"*

Dryly, "You weren't exactly in it for the money."*

"Well, I'll confess to a vague satisfaction in taking down someone that thought they were smarter than me. But not enough to wanna stick around here."* He waved the check. "Certainly not for this!"*

Unable, unwilling to suppress her sarcasm, "All right. Well, let me know if you change your mind, or – you know – get it back."* _He's gotta be thinking about when he remembers, gotta be worried ... somewhere. Jane, where are you?_

"Some doors are best left shut."* Louder, "Uh, everyone else, I – I'd just like to say thank you. I'm sure we've shared some great times together. I'm not presently qualified to comment, so I'm just gonna make like a rock and roll. Bye."* He moved to lead Tamara toward the elevator.

 _Do something!_

Van Pelt's exclamation startled Lisbon. "Wait! That looks real."*

At a glance, "Sure does."* _Diamond bracelet for his arm candy. He's_ _flaunting_ _the theft, goddammit. –He's not stupid so why's he throwing it in our faces, risking arrest?_

Tamara exclaimed, " _You_ weren't lying!" and thanked him with a kiss.

Devastated, Van Pelt accused, "You took it. Wilcox wasn't lying. You really took it."*

"I'm sure I have no idea what you're talking about. I – I'm late for my new life."* Jane turned to leave.

Mind made up, Cho challenged, "When did you grab the cash?"*

Rigsby's expression made his disappointment plain without a word.

Dismissive, "Oh, please, does it really matter? I mean, you people are the highway robbers. Look at this paycheck!"

Van Pelt ripped into him, outrage battling fear for him. "We could have you arrested for grand theft."*

"There's not a jury in the world that would convict me. I'm out of my mind. Ask my doctor!"*

 _Won't look us in the eye, can't stand the disapproval._ _Wants_ _us to stop him!_ Lisbon blocked his path and said quietly,"You're running away."*

"What are you talking about?"* Fear underlay denial.

"You're starting to feel something inside and you don't know what to do with it."* _Push it, push him._

"That's nonsense,"* silver tongue turned to lead.

 _Just get him to come-_ "Prove it. Take a ride with me. If you still want to leave after that, you can."*

Jane stood frozen in uncertainty. The girl tugged his arm.

"Patrick, are we going?"

Distractedly, "I'm sorry, Tamara," mispronouncing her name again. "I, I need to resolve this with Teresa." He gave the girl a wad of money without counting. "Here, take a cab."

She whined, "What about Reno? Call me later?"

Jane shook his head. "No." Distracted, "Thank you for coming to the hospital with me," then ignored her, transfixed and staring at Lisbon.

Lisbon caught Van Pelt's eye and motioned with her chin to get rid of the girl. The redhead coaxed Tamara to the elevator and disappeared. Lisbon pursed her lips – _Should impound the bracelet and cash, ah, deal with that later –_ and let it go _._

"I'll get my stuff. It's a long drive." Lisbon glanced at Cho and Rigsby, her look ordering them to keep Jane there. As she brushed past Cho she said in a low voice, "Tell Wainwright I'm taking personal time. –Wrap up the Satterfield case."

"Will do, boss."

"Thanks. Wish me luck."

She grabbed her stuff from her office and locked it. Turning, she was alarmed that Jane was gone–

"-In the men's room. Rigsby's with him," reassured Cho. She blinked in relief. "Boss–"

"What?"

"Malibu?" She nodded. He frowned, "Wise?"

"Best chance of getting him back."

"Back up? How do you know how he'll react?"

Uncharacteristically, she put her hand on his arm, gratitude washing over her for the team's loyalty, for Cho's smarts. "Cho, it's Jane. Just Jane. We'll be fine. Sophie Miller's in the loop if I need help."

Cho nodded, wheeled and returned to his desk. By then Rigsby was walking back, awkwardly making small talk with Jane. Hints of uncertainty, eagerness, and fear belied the consultant's nonchalant mask. His gaze sought and stayed on Lisbon.

She unconsciously squared her shoulders. "Com'on, Jane. It's a long ride. We'll get fast food on the way." Jane trailed her closely as they disappeared from view.

Cho sighed. Jane was more trouble than a half dozen agents combined, but solved cases no one else could. Professionally and personally, he fervently hoped Lisbon would return with the Jane they knew. Cho set it aside to focus on doing something useful. He'd wrap up Satterfield and put the S&L details in order. Lisbon would have to figure out what to do about the missing cash. With the S&L case solved and a 3-day holiday weekend ahead, the other team wouldn't mind waiting till next week.

Once in the SUV and on the road Lisbon's tension eased. Now Jane couldn't leave and she had a plan that might solve this nightmare. They got fast food at a drive-through. Neither wanted to go in so she parked rather than drive while eating. She surreptitiously watched, simultaneously hopeful and apprehensive. His body language said, "relaxed and at ease," except for constantly worrying his wedding band.

Balling up the fast food bag he tossed it in the trash through the open window. "You are transparent, my dear. I'm not going to detonate." He grinned, "Though you might with how tightly wound you are. Chill."

"I am not – oh, never mind. And stop reading me."

"Automatic." He huffed, "Has to be or I would have starved long ago."

Interest piqued, "Oh?" She glanced at him before pulling onto the highway, heading to I-5.

He tilted his head looked at her, eyes narrowed, slightly smiling at the opportunity. "Curious, huh? I'll answer your questions if you answer mine."

"Jane, I'm not going against Dr. Miller's orders."

Easy smile, "Had to try. –If you won't tell me about me, how about talking about your team and working together?"

Cautiously, "I guess that would be okay. It is a long drive." She smoothly merged with traffic on I-5 heading south.

Instantly, "How long?"

"Six hours, give or take."

"LA, then. Don't suppose you'll say why..."

She tensed, then relaxed. "No. What do you want to know about the SCU?"

He looked out the passenger window, the better to conceal. "I'm intrigued to find myself working with cops. –You know I'm a fake psychic, that I flirt with that legal/illegal line. How? Why?"

While careful of traffic and her driving, her mind looked years into the past. "It's surreal how well you read people." She stole a look out of the corner of her eye. "You know human failings. And you pick up details better than most detectives."

"'Most'?" He raised his eyebrows in mock surprise.

She frowned then realized he was teasing. Firmly, " _Most._ Anyhow, those abilities are pretty useful for figuring out who's guilty."

"How do I do that?"

She snorted, "You just did. Rile 'em up, read 'em, nail 'em."

Fishing, "And how does your straight-edge team like working with a co– a fake psychic?"

Serious now, "It took a while. At first it was a pissing match between you and the guys. Who can solve it first." At his raised eyebrows she added, "Van Pelt's the rookie, joined later."

"But?"

She grinned, "But now it's my turn."

"Fire away."

She fell silent for a few miles. _Is it fair to ask? Eh, he offered. I'll stay away from anything Angela._ "You told us you grew up in a carnival." He looked slightly surprised at the 'us.' "Why or how did you come to leave? And then what?"

He shifted in his seat to watch her face as she drove. "I did grow up a carny. Had an act with my ol' man. Took off at 16 after a big fight."

 _As usual, hides more than he shows._ "How'd you manage at 16? Friends, family?"

He shook his head. "I had a little money saved." He puffed out his cheeks as he exhaled. "My father always handled the till, another way to control me." He blinked. Too heavy, too revealing. "Anyhow, I hustled pool and cards, took odd jobs." He shrugged, "It was enough. Kept me fed. Scraped up money for good clothes and started performing in bars." His lips twitched. "By then I was old enough to _be_ in bars."

"Performing?"

"You saw. Psychic readings." Quick grin, "Entertaining, believable, especially for half-bombed audiences."

"And?"

"And my turn to ask. Tell me about your Three Musketeers, them and me."

Lisbon swiped her upper lip with her tongue, considering how to answer. "Cho and I used to work in SFPD together."

Jane moved it along, "You were a rising star, got the gig at the CBI and brought him with. –Ex-gang member. How's that work? Why's he willing to work with me?"

She blinked, aggravated she'd forgotten how much Jane would know even without remembering. "He quit the gang, served in the Army, went to work for SFPD. And yes, he was my first hire. Cho," she took a breath, "is all about results. You get results, he respects you."

Jane scratched his jaw and added with a smile, "B-u-t doesn't take any crap from me – or anyone." It wasn't a question.

"Yeah."

"Rigsby?"

Mulling her team's qualities as much as answering Jane's question, "Rigsby is a solid detective and an exceptional arson investigator."

Jane frowned, "Has to know chemistry for that, right?" She nodded. "So smarter than he comes across."

She grimaced at his characterization, then reluctantly nodded. "Don't underestimate him. He pulls his weight."

"But doesn't have a clue how to deal with me." He smirked.

Sharply, "You constantly tease and trick him. He admires how clever you are. And how you solve cases."

Now serious, "He chose to be a cop after a rough background. Disappointed because he thinks I took the cash."

 _Still dissembling, unwilling to admit he stole it._ She glared. "Jane."

He raised his hands in surrender, "Okay, that's a whole other discussion. -And Gingersnaps – Van Pelt ?"

Her lips quirked. "'Gingersnaps'? Don't let her hear that! Van Pelt is the newest, but not a rookie anymore. Very smart, computer whiz, serious about her career." She sighed. "Can't help seeing the best in people–"

"–except she got burned by someone recently?"

Soberly, "She was. I hope she gets over it."

"And seeing, _wanting_ to see the best in everyone explains her outrage."

Quietly, "Yes it does."

Jane nervously caught his tongue between his lips. "So I've p.o.'d everyone on your team. What does that do for this delightful team spirit?"

 _Mocking because he's afraid._ Severely, "You'll have to fix it." _Of course he's scared. Knocking around solo, losing a decade, we're all he's got._

He affected diffidence. His eyes betrayed worry. "Possible?"

She turned to look him in the face. "Wouldn't be the first time. But, yeah, you could fix it."

"And what–"

"My turn," she interrupted. "So you figured out how to survive. What next, what did you aim for?"

Lightly. "The usual. Fame and fortune."

Neutrally. "Seriously? And?"

He swallowed. "And something stable, permanent. Carny life gets old. Scraping by, always traveling, barely tolerated by the good solid citizens. Standard stuff."

Lisbon signaled and pulled off to a rest area. "Pit stop."

Jane stirred and reached for his cup. "I could use more coffee. Vending machines have come a ways ... since I last remember."

She set the parking break, then hesitated. _Should have listened to Cho. How do I do this without him taking off?_

Amused, he answered her unspoken fear, "Said I'd come with. I won't leave. Com'on." He got out. She followed a moment later and hoped for the best.

Jane finished quickly and exited the men's room. He stretched and looked around. _Stick with Teresa or hitch with a trucker? Who am I kidding? I got nothin' except bad memories coming my way. The pay is a joke, but I can make extra by gambling. I stayed four years so there must be something worthwhile. Still doesn't make sense though..._

"Jane!"

He turned and waved. Lisbon hurried over.

"Hit the vending machines?"

"Waiting for you. And, uh–" he looked sheepish, "no money, remember?"

She nodded, biting back a comment about giving his money to his 'date.' "You can owe me."

Lisbon and Jane were soon back on the road. They'd driven about 20 minutes when Jane reopened the conversation.

"You _tell_ me this teamwork thing works but it doesn't make sense."

"Why not?"

"I close cases. –Not enough for cops to tolerate someone as far outside their comfort zone as I am."

"Oh." The SUV ate up a dozen miles while she thought. "Don't underestimate how much closing cases matters. Why we're cops. But you're right, there is more to it. Law enforcement is dangerous. Everyone on the team has protected you, even saved your life working on cases."

"–But-"

"–You have done the same for us."

That prompted a chuckle. "You're kidding. Can't see myself protecting you all – you know, the cops with training and guns?"

She threw him a dirty look. "There are other ways than using a gun or beating someone up."

Still grinning, "Yeah?"

Evenly, "You figure things out faster and better than anyone. That's a big advantage in the field. Figuring out the killer from the smell of pineapple saved my life. Cho blamed himself when a key informant skipped out, but you accepted responsibility instead. You figured out who killed Cho's best friend and kept him from destroying his career. And himself. Rigsby was hypnotized by a murderer. You were the only one who would have known and you stopped him before he threw you off the roof. You cleared Van Pelt for a witness's murder." She sighed at the still-raw memory. "Recently, you figured out her fiancé was working for a serial killer-"

"–Ouch! No wonder she feels burned."

Softly, "And you stayed when a perp strapped me in a bomb vest."

Jane's eyebrows rose, "Obviously it worked out. -Threats, fatal falls, bombs. Sounds like a fun occupation. How could I resist?"

"You like the challenge of solving cases and delivering justice." She ignored Jane rolling his eyes. "And, well, despite how grim it sounds, we often _do_ have fun. A lot of that is you. Card and magic tricks, mind games, twitting the bigwigs," she scowled, "creating mountains of complaints I have to answer."

"Specifics, Teresa?"

"You made $300,000 at a poker game to trip up a murderer. We investigated the murder of a researcher working on a 'morality engine' that would make people more ethical–"

"-Did it work?"

"No." She continued her recollections. " _Against my express orders_ , you stole back a painting from a Russian mobster and got me in trouble with the State Department."

Eyes twinkling with delight, "Do I detect a pattern of rule breaking?"

She snorted loudly. "Rule breaking? More like they're suggestions you follow when it's convenient. Sheep dip! You even broke out of jail to prove a point. I had to strong arm a colleague and make apologies to half of Sacramento law enforcement to save your ass from that one!"

"But I solved the case?"

"You did." She fell silent.

"Something happened connected to that. Something bad."

She took a deep breath. "Yes. Not because of you." She shook off the memories. "Your unique and often illegal methods get results and, I have to admit, make life more interesting." Her eyes caught his gaze before turning back to the road. Softly, "Jane, you help close cases faster than we otherwise would and close some no one else could. You're a valued member of the team, liked by us all – when you're not pissing us off. A good man–" her nose twitched, "despite yourself."

He huffed then grinned. "Maybe I should ask for a raise. –I know cops don't take government jobs for the money, but California's getting a bargain."

"Feels that way sometimes."

"And us, Teresa?"

Stiffly, "I'm your boss, Jane. A personal relationship would be inappropriate."

He nodded, disbelieving. "Uh-huh. Keep saying it and maybe you'll believe it." She grimaced but said nothing.

They lapsed into silence. _So these cops have saved my ass, probably in dangerous situations. And I've returned the favor. There's something to all this or neither side would bother. Fancy that. Teresa knows I'm a fake, but doesn't care since I solve cases. Damned if it doesn't sound like fun. More fun than reading half-drunk women at bars twice a night. Still don't 'get' the situation with Teresa. She's ... interesting. Tough cop, compassionate woman who does her best to hide it. I want to know more..."_

Conversation was desultory from then on, about everything and nothing. Jane accepted he wouldn't get answers to his burning personal questions. _No choice but to trust Teresa. S_ he obviously hoped he'd get his memories back. He swung wildly between hope and dread, though the lure of friendship, belonging to something, belonging to some _one_ eased the prospect of remembering something horrible.

Lisbon assiduously avoided talking about Jane's background or anything remotely connected to Red John. Jane's missing memories eliminated whole swaths of topics for small talk. She ended up talking about her bosses and former bosses, CBI colleagues, forensic science, and police training. Through it all, Jane fidgeted ceaselessly with his ring, at times crossing his arms to still his hands.

A couple of hours from LA Jane started sprinkling references to nearby towns and suburbs. Lisbon caught on, but reacted anyhow when Jane mentioned Malibu.

"Malibu, huh? That explains the town ending in 'u' on my driver's license." Her alarm was palpable. Teasing, "Hey. I'm on my way to the gallows, not you. It's okay, Teresa." Rather than lightening up she looked even more stricken. He sighed and tried not to think as he watched the scenery race by.

Tension grew when they left the interstate to drive local roads toward Malibu. Twilight slowly smothered daylight's embers as the SUV snaked along the coast highway. Business strips predictably punctuated the miles. Jane unconsciously leaned forward by the time Lisbon turned off, turned left up along the bluffs toward homes of breath-taking ocean vistas and equally breath-taking prices. She pulled past a screen of trees into a driveway and parked in front of a modern house that rested gracefully atop the bluff. Large, unlit windows blankly stared out of the striking house. Nobody home.

Exiting the SUV, they stretched away the stiffness of the long ride. Jane looked over the house, smiling in appreciation. "Great house."* They mounted the concrete steps. "Whose is it?"*

"It's yours. Give me your keys."*

"Okay."* His smile widened, pleasure supplanting worry about why he was here. He'd done it. Made it out of poverty and the rootless carny life. This house told him he'd achieved the material success he'd coveted.

Lisbon unlocked the door and they silently entered the dim house, empty except for a foyer table and – jarringly – a child's tricycle. Jane swallowed nervously as he blindly followed Lisbon. They mounted the open stairwell, moonlight from the skylight sufficient to guide their steps.

Dread settled over Jane as he climbed the stairs, more unnerved with every step. Lisbon moved aside when they reached the top and he walked the short distance to the bedrooms. A door was closed at the end of the hall. Jane hesitated, anxiously looking back at Lisbon. He forced himself to turn the knob.

Moonlight gleamed off the faded brown smiley face, dried blood stark against the white wall. He slumped, barely managing to stand. A tsunami of red crashed over him, buffeting him, drowning him in sorrow as the horrific murders of his wife and daughter were made new.

"I'm sorry,"* whispered Lisbon, seared by revisiting anguish on the man she respected and loved more than she dared admit.

Jane wavered, crushed, consumed by an ocean of blood. He staggered toward the wall, whether to touch the blood or abase himself beneath, he didn't know. He paused at the mattress, near collapse except–

"-No!" Lisbon protested instinctively at thought of him trapped in that evil and horror. Quick steps took her to his side and she drew his arm around her shoulders, her small frame taking much of his weight. She led him from the wall, out of the grief-saturated, nightmare-filled room. Jane numbly followed, looking back over his shoulder, vision oddly doubled, brown overlaid with bright crimson, bare floor obscured by slain daughter and eviscerated wife, stomach roiling at the heavy scent of blood and gore, dust and stale air.

Halfway down the hall Jane jerked away. He fell to his knees before the toilet in the hall bathroom, heaving helplessly into the toilet bowl till his throat burned with bile and acid. Eventually the torture of dry heaves subsided and Lisbon helped him up. He leaned against the sink, cupping his hand to rinse his mouth and ease the sick burning with water. Jane dried his mouth with the back of his hand as Lisbon flushed away the vomit.

Somehow they made it out without falling down the stairs. Lisbon gently nudged Jane into the passenger seat where he collapsed as much as sat. She helped get his feet in then fastened the seatbelt. She hurriedly locked the house door and slid into the driver's seat.

Softly, "Jane?" she asked, her hand on his shoulder.

He looked up dully, eyes bottomless pools of misery.

"Do you remember Sophie Miller? Do you want her help?"

His forehead creased in confusion then smoothed with recognition. His hoarse whisper refused, "No. Just go back ... home. Sacramento."

It was late. Both were exhausted. Regardless, Lisbon was driven to leave, to distance Jane from the horror of Malibu in every way possible. They finished the five-and-a-half hour drive in five hours, Lisbon grimly staying awake on caffeine, sugar, and tension. Four hundred miles lapsed with not a word from Jane, who huddled against the passenger door, holding himself together with arms wrapped around his chest. The black sky opened and a deluge poured forth as they entered Sacramento.

Lisbon pulled into the parking space in front of her townhouse and killed the engine. Bone tired, her forehead dropped against the steering wheel as numb hands fell to her lap. Five minutes later she mustered the energy to move and resigned herself to getting drenched by the continuing downpour. She was too tired to rush and staying dry was too futile a hope in the stinging, cold rain. She trod round to the passenger door. Her hand on his arm, Jane walked to the front door with her. They stumbled in. She closed and bolted the door. Jane leaned against the wall, dripping silently.

"Jane, com'on. I'll get you dry clothes. You can use the guest bedroom."

They trudged up the stairs. She sat him on the closed toilet seat in the hall bathroom. She got towels, toothpaste and a new toothbrush, and found the sweat pants and t-shirt Tommy had left after his last visit.

"Dry off and put these on. I'll be back." She hoped Jane would manage that while she changed in the bathroom off her bedroom.

She knocked. "Jane?" She took the "mmph" as liberty to enter and was relieved to find Jane in dry clothes. Anxiously, "Do you want tea? Sleeping pills, anything?" He looked up but didn't answer. His eyes bloodshot and dull with fatigue and grief, she decided sleep was Jane's most pressing need. "Bed it is." She took one hand from where he had them trapped between his knees. She tugged gently and he rose and followed. Five minutes later Jane was in bed, eyes closed, face slack with exhaustion.

"Get some sleep." She tucked the blanket around his shoulders, his skin still cool to the touch from the rain. She hesitated, then brushed her lips to his forehead and left. Lisbon closed his bedroom door but left hers ajar to be sure she'd hear if he stirred.

She crawled into bed. Despite bone melting weariness, sleep eluded her for nearly an hour. Jane remembered. Those memories dragged him back seven years to the gutted shell he'd been when he came to the CBI. She prayed he wouldn't again endure torturous years of healing to get back to where he'd been a mere four days ago.

The black of nothingness claimed her.


	9. Chapter 9 - L & J POV: Bittersweet

**Chapter 9: Bittersweet**

 _...dappled, moonlit forest– "Your father forgives you, he loves–" stepping over a blood-soaked body– turning the knob– sun-kissed skin redolent of lavender and coal t–" drowning, thrashing, terrified– sable hair cascading- see the face first and you know–_

Jane shot upright, gasping. His pulse pounded, crashing against his skull and shaking his vision. Memory or nightmare? _Angie – Charlotte! Dear god, Charlie..._ He scanned the room in dim lunar light - _Where am–_ Motion renewed the brutal pounding. He gripped his head lest it explode, drew knees to chest and rested his forehead against them. Scorching heat swept up his body and set his brain ablaze while hands and feet numbed with cold. A dozen deep breaths later and he could raise his head and move his eyes. A glass of water and bottle of pills sat on the night stand. He reached with shaking hand. Cool relief slid down his raw throat and soothed his overheated brain. He made out 'aspirin' in a shaft of moonlight.

A seeming eternity later punishing blows eased to background pain. Jane leaned against the headboard, breathing deeply. _I remember._ That ordinary fact was somehow important. He remembered too much. _What's real?_ He took stock. _Strange room, tee and sweats not mine_. There were no pictures, wallet or photos to anchor him. Reality was a rippling, slippery thing of confused images, feelings, and double-vision memories. _Jesus, is it all true? Angie and Charlie. Padded room with Sophie. And Lisbon – Teresa? I was in a bar in Nevada. Then a, a crime scene in the woods._ _What happened?_ _Why am I wherever here is? E_ xhaustion dragged him back to sleep before he sorted out anything. The glass fell to the bed from limp fingers and he slumped awkwardly to the side.

Soft tapping. Jane woke with a jerk. Dust motes drifted lazily in the golden afternoon glow as memories flooded back. He swung his feet down, gaze fast upon the door and breath bated at what the next second would reveal. It opened a few inches: Dark chocolate hair and tourmaline eyes. And _he knew_. A spasm of anguish: _All true._ He hung his head the better to conceal, heart shattered anew.

Softly, "Jane?"

Fresh grief ripped through him followed by guilt. For his family. For the millisecond he hated Teresa's cherished face for proving his family's death, for confirming his personal hell. After a moment he raised his head. His face was blank, voice even. "Lisbon?"

Her eyes narrowed. "It's past noon. Thought I heard you stir." She noticed the pill bottle and empty water glass on the bed. "The doctor said you'd have a headache. From the ... strain." She regarded him questioningly.

"Woke briefly. Thanks for the water and aspirin. Better now." He dropped his gaze, still struggling.

"Hungry? I can make eggs."

He swallowed and looked up. "If they come with tea that'd be great." A relieved smile broke over Lisbon's face. "–Mind if I shower first?"

Lisbon started breakfast, clumsy from fatigue that a dozen hours of sleep couldn't fix. She put on coffee and filled the kettle for tea. _He remembers. Is everything back to normal ... or not?_ She mulled that as she worked, vainly stretching her back to relieve the stabbing blade of tension wrought by 11 hours of driving and the past four days. _When do we get a break?_ Her brow creased remembering everything that happened since Jane joined the team. _Renfrew and Red John. Killing Hardy. Bosco and his team - God rest their souls. Then that bitch Anderson lays it on Jane. Frye. Jane at Red John's mercy in that slaughterhouse._

She absently put the egg carton on the counter. She stopped dead at, _Timothy Carter,_ her worst nightmare times ten. _I got shot, Grace killed her fiancé. Two murdered cops. Suspended, team disbanded. And Jane arrested for murder._ She leaned against the counter for support, nauseated at the memory. _Was never more afraid in my life._ She grimaced in shame that all her concern had been for Jane when he'd seemingly murdered an innocent man in cold blood. She got a grip. _No, that's not right._ She wouldn't be the first woman to forgive a man anything for love. But long before Carter she'd learned to trust Jane's instincts: She believed him when he said Carter was Red John. She inhaled deeply and let it out slowly. _Damned if he didn't talk his way to 'not guilty.'_ She swallowed, throat suddenly dry. _And then Carter isn't Red John after all._ She absently filled her mug with coffee, adding extra sugar for cheap energy. She sat heavily at the table and sipped the bittersweet liquid. Eyes closed, she let herself finish the thought. _Thank God Carter actually was a serial killer. I can't imagine Jane's reactions had he killed an innocent man._ No one had infinite resilience, not even Jane. The fugue proved it.

Attention back on the present, she glanced at the kitchen clock. Forty minutes. There was at most a half hour of hot water left after her shower. She was about to check when the drumming spray quit. Jane appeared minutes later again dressed in Tommy's clothes. _Of course. Jane's are sopping wet._ His damp curls gleamed a few shades darker than usual. His face was pleasant, mask perfect except for slightly reddened eyes. He smiled brilliantly in greeting. After so many years, she _knew_ how much that smile hid _._ She fixed eggs and he followed his tea ritual.

They sat down to eggs, cinnamon toast, canned fruit, and bacon. Their comments were limited to getting food on the table. Lisbon glanced at him repeatedly. Tommy's clothes were a visual squeak.

Mid-way through breakfast Jane ventured, "You have me at a disadvantage, Lisbon. How did I come to be your house guest?"

Pinning him with a clear, level gaze, "Tell me your last memory."

A frown flicked across his face and was gone. "The team was investigating the murder of a dead fireman. Throat cut, I believe."

She let him lead, let him decide how much how fast. "That's correct. Paul Satterfield was murdered Wednesday night."

"And?"

"The team was doing the work-up. You went looking for the murder weapon in the nature area. Woods."

"And?–"

Lisbon swallowed the lump in her throat. "You were attacked and almost drowned by the murderer." She _had_ to add 'almost.' She wasn't sure whether that was to spare him or herself.

Deceptively casual, "Is there a reason I don't remember that?"

She took a deep breath. "The hospital neurologist, Dr. Jason Miller said the attack triggered a fugue."

'Oh." He tilted his head curiously. "How long?"

She shouldn't be surprised he knew what that was. "Four days."

Meticulously, "Four days in the fugue, or four days of forgotten memories?"

She gave herself time by sipping coffee then said carefully, "During the four days you were affected by the fugue, you lost over ten years of memories."

Now he sipped his tea, eyes brilliant over the rim. "I see." His face was smooth and expressionless. Not a hint of emotion was revealed that might lead to a real conversation. Indifferently, "Anything significant happen?"

 _Dammit. Masks and hiding. I drop a bombshell and he doesn't even blink._ She said only, "Solved the case. I have a few loose ends to clear up with you."

He looked at her speculatively and half shrugged. "Okay. Trust it'll keep." He took another bite of eggs. "My dear Lisbon, you have unexpected talents! These eggs are excellent."

 _Conceal and deflect._ Dryly, "Eggs are cheap. Ate a lot of them as a kid."

He smiled, got up and started rooting around in her refrigerator. Still peering inside, "There's nothing in here that could sustain life. It's a wonder you don't starve."

 _Conceal, deflect, and distract. Great._ "Jane, _my_ fridge. Can't see it's your business."

He pulled a butter dish out with a flourish. "Voila." He reseated himself.

She let the silence stretch then proposed, "Need to go to the CBI today. I want you to come with."

He looked at her curiously while fastidiously munching on the buttered toast. "Why?"

"It's the weekend. Someplace else you have to be?"

He let her get away with answering with a question and gave her a small smile. "No. I'll come."

They finished up and loaded the dishwasher. Jane extracted his wallet and things from his sodden clothes while Lisbon located socks and Tommy's abandoned sneakers for him. They were out the door in ten minutes.

En route, Lisbon ignored Jane's fiddling with the radio, grateful it held his focus. _Conceal, deflect, distract._ She keenly missed the greater openness – and closeness – they'd shared since the trial, but it was way more than personal preference. She glanced over and her lips tightened unconsciously. _Four miserable days. He was starting to live again. I refuse to lose that._ Jane's murder of Timothy Carter had scared her witless until the Carter's were exposed as monsters. Though vigilante justice rubbed her raw, she was far more concerned for Jane. Lisbon couldn't begin to imagine what would happen if a man like Jane lapsed into madness, into psychopathy. Honesty pulled her up short. _Wrong!_ She knew _exactly_ what vengeance-driven Jane would be without a conscience. He'd be Red John. She grabbed her travel mug and took a gulp, grateful her thoughts remained private while Jane continued messing with the radio. She couldn't bear the thought of more years of recklessness bordering on suicidal, of masks and games and distancing, of him poised on the knife-edge of madness. Of desperately hoping he'd choose life. Her mind was made up. _Give it a try._

Lisbon pulled up to the gate at the CBI parking lot. Jimmy had pulled security for the holiday weekend. She waved her CBI ID at him. "Hey, Jimmy."

"Hi, Agent Lisbon and –" he paused at the sight of Jane in a tee and sweat pants, "– and Mr. Jane." He waved them through.

The lot was sparsely populated with a few SUV's and Jane's oddball Citroen. Jane stared at the CBI building, forehead slightly wrinkled. As Lisbon parked Jane asked, "You said there was something to clear up _with me._ What?"

Lisbon shut off the engine and rolled her shoulders to relieve the pain that was back. "Wilcox murdered the fireman who rescued him, to hide an ATM robbery. He claimed you stole half the money during the take-down." She glimpsed his disgust before he erased the expression.

Jane didn't have to ask: He could read she believed it. That told him worlds about the four days of fugue. A muscle twitched in his jaw. "I see."

When he didn't say more Lisbon motioned, "Com'on. Get your away bag from that death trap so you have some clothes. You can change in the locker room."

Jane nodded. He walked to the Citroen while Lisbon waited by the CBI door. He opened the carry-on and rifled through it, closed it. He rejoined Lisbon. When she turned to enter he unexpectedly stopped. "Just a minute. Forgot something." He left the suitcase and loped back to his car. The open trunk hid him from sight. He returned and handed her a black plastic grocery bag.

"What's–" she began then stopped when she looked inside.

"There are 18 bundles, $36,000. Tell me if more is missing." He winced and rubbed his forehead, then smoothed his face out when he caught her looking.

"The exact amount's in the report on my desk. But, um, let's go to the gym first."

Jane gently took the bag from her, murmuring, "Let me. I'll make sure Security doesn't get nosy."

Lisbon picked up his carry-on. Security insisted on a cursory look inside. Jane walked through the metal detector unquestioned since the plastic bag was filled with paper ... money.

The elevator disgorged them on the basement level. Lisbon was relieved to see the gym dark and deserted. _Holiday weekend. Good._ She used her CBI ID/keycard to unlock the glass door. Motion sensors automatically turned on the lights. Jane gave her a confused look. They didn't need to enter the gym for access to the men's locker room.

"Lisbon?"

"Just follow me, Jane." The room was warm. Automatic energy saving cut off the AC on weekends unless the gym was in use. She walked half-way across and put down his carry-on next to a bench. She took the bag from him and set it alongside. She pulled boxing gloves off a hook on the wall and turned. "I want you to pound the crap out of this punching bag."

He looked askance at her. In disbelief, "What?"

She took his right hand, fitted a glove on and laced it tight. Calmly, "You heard me. Dr. Miller said you should express the anger." She didn't clarify _which_ Dr. Miller.

Still frowning Jane got distracted by the unfamiliar feel of the boxing glove. He flexed his hand, curiosity piqued. When she moved to put one on his left he stepped back nearer the punching bag and pulled his hand away. "That's ridiculous. I'm not doing that."

Lisbon moved around so the punching bag was between them. "You need to. As your boss, that's a direct order."

Hanging on to an air of amused resistance, "I have no boss and what–" She gave the bag a shove, solidly bumping him. Lisbon gracefully stepped aside when he reflexively pushed back.

Tone sharper she said, "You were _drowned_ by the creep who murdered Satterfield. The EMT's had to shock you twice or you'd be dead." Jane blinked, stunned. "Don't tell me you're okay with that."

"Of course no–" She shoved the bag, overbalancing him when it connected. "Stop that," he bit out, control slipping.

"You spent four days in hell. You've gotta be pissed." She shoved again, harder. He fended it off with the gloved fist.

"Lisbon, I–"

Lisbon hissed urgently, eyes shiny, "We had to go to Malibu to get you back. How 'bout Red John? You okay with him?"

Jane turned away, then whirled back, fist solidly connecting with the bad. "Shut. Up."

She shoved again, "Four _years_ in hell chasing that monster." He swung again.

She held the bag this time as she goaded, "Pretend it's _him."_ Jane took some half-hearted swings and was about to stop. "He killed your–your family. Bosco, Hicks, Dyson, Martinez." More blows, no longer looking at her.

"Renfrew, the Peake's. Innocent women, butchered." She backed up several paces as Jane flailed, face contorted with pain and hate. Sweat, maybe more, beaded then dripped from his face or streaked down cheeks and neck. His arms glistened with it.

Fifteen minutes later Jane stood trembling, sweat-soaked and spent. His hands hung limp. The bare knuckles on his left hand were red and bleeding. He hung his head, hair plastered against skin, drawing ragged, shuddering breaths.

Lisbon guided him to the bench with a hand on his shoulder. He sat, elbows resting on thighs, hands covering his face. When his breathing eased she gently urged him to his feet. "A hot shower now and you won't be so sore." She led the way to the men's locker room, turned on a shower and left him on a bench with a gym towel and his carry-on. She exited into the gym just as her cell vibrated in her pocket .

"Lisbon." She made her way to the corridor to be doubly sure Jane couldn't overhear. "... At the CBI to get something. ... He got it back. ... Rough. Dredged it all up again – not that it's ever completely off his mind. ... Not quite. Trying to remind him he's part of the team, has friends. He didn't have that when his family was murdered. ... Almost. Thirty-six thousand. ... Not yet but I'll figure something out by Tuesday. ... That's a good idea if you're willing. ... Yeah. We'll do that. Monday what time? ... We'll be there. Thanks, Cho."

Lisbon looked over as the door opened. Jane joined her in the corridor with his carry-on in hand. He was now dressed in a three-piece suit. His damp hair was tamed and smoothed back as best as possible. _Looks tired. And sad. –At least he lost the damn fake smile._ He had wrapped his skinned knuckles in folded paper towels. She resisted asking the inane, 'How are you?' _As though his demons could be slain by a workout and hot shower..._

Jane smiled slightly in greeting. "What next?"

She motioned at his hand. "There's a first aid kit upstairs. I can wrap that for you." She ignored his dismissive shrug. "I need to stop by my office anyway-" she lifted the plastic bag of money, "Lock this up till Tuesday."

He huffed. "Not much of a lock on your office. Or desk."

She threw him a dirty glance at the truth of his repeatedly picking the lock to her office. "It's fine against ordinary mortals. No one will look without knowing there's something of value." He shrugged and followed her to the elevator.

A half hour later Lisbon got up from her desk and shoved a thick three-ring binder into her computer bag. Jane swung his feet down from her couch and looked at her expectantly.

She snapped her fingers, remembering. "Oh. Forgot to get that figure for the missing cash."

"Don't bother. It's $2,000."

"How–"

"They're banded bundles of $20's. Makes sense I used one for spending money."

She rifled through the folders on her desk then opened one and scanned down the information. "You're right," she said, looking up. "I, ah, should have impounded the bracelet and cash you gave the gir– woman, but she was gone by the time I thought of it."

Jane's eyebrows rose at that tidbit but he said nothing. He got his suitcase. She locked her office door and they headed to the elevator. Jane looked at the stairs to the attic as they waited for the elevator.

Quietly, "Please no. Not after last week."

After a moment he tipped his head, acquiescing. He licked his lips. "I should shove off then."

"And do what? –I've got a better idea. How about we watch a truly terrible movie with Ben and Jerry?" she asked, mentioning her – their – favorite ice cream.

A hint of a smile was barely reflected in his eyes, "Irresistible when you put it that way. – What movie?"

"Aren't they all terrible?"

"Miss Cynicism. Mostly." He looked at her slyly when they boarded the elevator. "So much for separating the professional from the personal." They disembarked and left the building.

She snorted rudely. "Bite me." She headed to her SUV. "Hey. You're comin' with me," she called as he started toward the Citroen. He hesitated a moment then walked her way and tossed his carry-on onto the back seat.

Glancing back at his car, "How will I–"

"Stay in my guest bedroom. I already have to change the sheets," she grumbled.

His lips quirked. "This is the last of my clean clothes. Stop by my motel?"

She frowned. It was a tossup whether the attic or the dreary, impersonal motel room was more depressing. "Sure," glad he was going along with her.

Lisbon waited in the SUV while Jane got his things. It was a brilliant fall day, and she rolled the window down to enjoy the crisp, dry air. Daytime warmth contrasted sharply with chilly nights. _Wish I knew the best thing to do._ She sighed. _I didn't want to see anyone, talk to anyone when mom died. I had to 'cause of my brothers. Maybe that was lucky. The world left Jane alone and he ended up in a padded room._ Her brows furrowed at that thought. She didn't _know_ it was padded ... but it was locked. Had to be bad. She was startled when a small package landed in her lap through the open window. Jane grinned at her as he went around to the passenger door. The package was a bundle of twenties.

"Geez, Jane." She started the ignition and closed the window. She craned her neck over her shoulder as she backed out of the space. Glancing at him, "You stash bundles of money in your room?"

"Never had any stolen. It's all about knowing where people _won't_ look."

They rode without talking till she pulled into the grocery store parking lot. Once in the store Jane unexpectedly guided the cart to the produce aisle instead of the freezer section.

"Jane?"

"You have nothing to eat in that refrigerator. You'll starve twice as fast with me there."

She rolled her eyes and said severely, " _Don't_ buy more than a few days' worth." She'd had years of slimy green meat and white-fuzzed vegetables collapsing into mush after away cases. "I see enough with decomposing corpses. Don't need rot and ruin in my fridge."

"Now _that's_ an infelicitous comparison," he said with a theatrical shudder.

Lisbon waited patiently as he picked out perfect specimens of a few fruits and vegetables. She ignored his soliloquy on how the need to ship tomatoes resulted in the perfect triumph of marketing over substance and swallowed a smile at his delight in finding a tea he liked. They ended up with a moderate amount of fruit, the makings for a salad, two loaves of bread from the store bakery, blocks of cheese she had never heard of, a few frozen entres, more eggs (of course!), and three flavors of Ben and Jerry's ice cream. By the time they were at checkout she'd realized the shopping was a means of distraction. _Though I wonder when he was last even in a grocery store_ , she thought with an ache. Whole categories of normal activity had been swept away that night.

They put the groceries away. Lisbon was taken aback when Jane seemed to know where everything went till she realized that functionality made it pretty predictable. Especially to Jane. They ordered take-out. Jane let her choose the movie which they watched from opposite corners of the couch while eating ice cream. Jane's idea of kicking back meant shedding his jacket and shoes. Jane's lacerating critique fell off as the movie progressed. _Certainly not 'cause he's engrossed in the movie,_ she thought as she noticed him preoccupied more than once. At last the credits were rolling for the forgettable film.

"What did I do?" Jane unexpectedly interrupted the silence.

She glanced over. "Pardon?"

He rubbed his forehead with the fingertips of both hands. "In the fugue."

"Jane, it doesn't matter sinc–"

Quiet but firm, "Tell me."

She licked her lips. After a moment, "You were admitted to the neurology unit from the ER when the doctors realized you'd forgotten ... a decade. He–"

"-Dr. Miller?" He frowned at the name. She thought he shared her reaction to the odd coincidence of names.

"–Dr. Miller said being around familiar people and places would help get your memories back. We weren't supposed to tell you, just let them come back naturally. You came in to work the case the next day."

He wiped his face with his right hand. "That must have gone well."

"A little awkward." His lips quirked at her effort to downplay just how awkward it must have been. "I, um, thought you'd feel more comfortable with the team but we were all strangers."

He observed her closely, "Except you."

She half shrugged, "Maybe because I was the first person from your ... life you saw at the hospital."

"So I bluffed my way through it. Who did I offend?"

"You were a little rough with the firemen–"

"Who _on the team_?"

"They know you weren't yourse–"

"Lisbon. Tell me."

She popped up and headed to the kitchen. "I'm getting coffee. Tea?"

He followed. A few minutes later they'd returned to the couch with their beverages.

"Now tell me."

She shifted uncomfortably. "You kind of flirted with Van Pelt." She took a sip.

He nodded to himself, "That would rattle Rigsby so I could read him."

"Oh." She looked surprised then relieved. "You did get Rig's name wrong." He just nodded. "Rigsby said it was all just ... 'off' when the two of you questioned the firemen."

He sighed. "And?"

"Well, we had lunch with Cho and that was almost normal."

"So I freaked Rigsby out badly enough that you had Cho babysit."

"Jane!" she protested.

Eyebrows raised, "You're not denying it. What did I do to Cho?"

"You and he went to the burnt out house – the last fire Satterfield fought before his murder. Wilcox was there and Cho let you run with talking to him. Later, when you checked out the house you ditched him." She grinned a little despite herself. "He was not pleased."

He scratched his head. "Hm. Next?"

"We didn't know where you went. Someone from a bar called the SCU a couple hours later asking about psychic readings."

Jane's forehead creased, then relaxed. "I lifted – mm, Rigsby's business cards and was performing in a bar. –Why?"

"You said, 'business.'"

"Money then." He looked harder at her. "There's more."

"We strong-armed you to leave the bar, go back to the hospital."

He read her as she spoke and frowned, "I did something you didn't like. –What?"

"Jane, it doesn't matter–"

" _I need to know so I can fix it,"_ he said more intensely.

She flicked a hand dismissing it as she replied, "You made a pass. No big deal."

He closed his eyes and looked away. "Sorry I was an ass, Lisbon."

"Jane. It's fine."

"Then?"

"I got you back to the hospital. You said you didn't wanna keeping working cases. I – I thought you meant till you got your memory back. But you–" her breath caught and he looked at her intently, "–you said you were done with crime fighting. You were happy. You told me to just let you be happy." Now she looked away.

Quietly, "And?"

"The next day you got one of the women from the bar to sign you out of the hospital as your 'responsible adult'-"

"–So they wouldn't try to retrieve me 'for my own good,'" he murmured bitterly, familiar with involuntary treatment for the seriously screwed up.

"Wilcox claimed you'd stolen some of the money–"

"–Which I had."

"You stopped by the CBI with the girl from the bar to get your last paycheck."

"Where was I going?"

"She said something about Reno."

He shook his head and looked disgusted.

"Van Pelt noticed her diamond bracelet was real."

He interrupted, not wanting her to recount the painful details, "So I bought the party girl a bracelet for breaking me out and was going to Reno for gambling and fun and games. What stopped me?"

"I challenged you to take a drive with me."

He leaned back against the couch, suddenly exhausted. "We went to Malibu and you showed me the face."

She nodded and looked away. "Jane, it was the only thing I could think of. I – I had to break my promise to let you alone. I mean, Dan Hollenbeck. Rachel Bowman. Red John." Desperately, "It was too dangerous for you not to remember." She turned away, too vulnerable to be laid bare by him.

He leaned forward and took her hand. "Lisbon." After a second, stronger, "Lisbon. Thank you."

She hesitantly turned back. "You're not mad?"

"Not mad you booted me out of being a horse's ass? Kept me from leaving the only – people who matter any more?" He paused and composed himself. Slowly, softly, "I'd rather not remember Red John, but only if it hadn't all happened. The price is too high if it means forgetting my family. –And losing the team."

She stared, drinking in his face, assuring herself he meant it. She swallowed. "Oh. That's, uh, okay then."

"Thank you, Teresa." He rose with natural grace despite his fatigue. "If you don't mind, I need to turn in. Your punching bag got the better of it, I think." He quietly put cup and saucer in the dishwasher and said, "Good night," before mounting the stairs.


	10. Chapter 10 - L & J POV: Absolution

A/N: Thanks go to the guest who corrected my mistake about the firearm Winters gave to Jane.

* * *

 **Chapter 10: Absolution**

Jane stirred uncomfortably, pants binding as he turned in his sleep. Woken by the discomfort, he rolled onto his back and adjusted his clothes. Arm, chest, and back muscles loudly complained from the workout engineered by Lisbon. _Got one over on me..._ he mused appreciatively. He realized that he _did_ feel, well, not better but calmer. _Empty instead of enraged._ The onslaught of thought was inescapable.

After fifteen minutes Jane abandoned hope of falling back asleep. He sat up and scratched his head, then shed the vest which was also chafing. _Should've changed into pajamas._.. The waning moon cast enough light to avoid crashing into furniture as he made his way to the hall. He stopped at the bathroom to relieve himself and was pleased when he found aspirin to soothe sore muscles. Then he went down to the kitchen, flicked on lights and set water to boil. _Sunday. Two days since I remembered._ The raw agony he relived of finding his butchered family was easing to the familiar background pain again. _God, it's been – what? – five years since their deaths?_ He didn't know how he felt about that. It wasn't _right_ that his grief should lessen, not while Red John breathed. _Yet, yet..._ He looked around. The comfort he took from being in Lisbon's home, surrounded by everything Lisbon, was undeniable. _She_ didn't bear blame for his family's demise. He didn't want his sorrow and guilt contaminating the pure gift of Teresa's caring. _God I'm a mess. Why can't I catch and kill the bastard? Five years!_ He absently poured milk into the mug – no proper tea service, – added boiling water and then the teabag.

 _And what about the team?_ He went over Lisbon's account as he sat drinking his tea. _Not irredeemable_ , he concluded _._ He blew out a long breath. _I can make them_ like _me again. Respect? Not sure._ ... _Hell, why should_ they _respect me when_ I _don't respect what I used to do, used to be?_ He swallowed. _Still am._ He morosely contemplated that while finishing his tea. He decided thinking about it was pointless until he saw them. He rose and made more tea, set the mug on the table and paused. He got his wallet from his suit jacket in the living room and spread the contents out on the table. Everything was there. Except one. A few shiny fragments fell onto the table from the compartment that used to house the photo. His lips thinned. _Something more to fix._ Fatigue dragged him down. He walked to the living room for his jacket but gave into temptation and sank down onto the beckoning couch. His eyes drooped and he simply lay sideways and brought his feet onto the couch. Sleep found him moments later.

 _Shocking, icy water! Lunging toward a terrifyingly still Jane until_ – She woke panting, heart pumping, wired by adrenaline. _Nightmare?! NO! It happened._ Breath whooshed out in relief. _But he's okay. Alive. Back._ She made the sign of the cross, unspeakably grateful her prayers had been answered that sickening moment last week. Her skin prickled with goose bumps and it dawned she'd kicked the covers off. She got up and went to the attached bathroom, needing distance from the nightmare before trying to sleep again. A minute later she walked back only to notice the bright stripe of light under the door. She rubbed her chilled arms and followed the light downstairs. Lisbon made out Jane sleeping on the couch in pants, socks and untucked shirt. _Sound asleep._ _Not like he's uncomfortable on couches..._ Goose bumps reminded her of the chill and she pulled the throw off the side chair and draped it over him. Nothing was amiss in the kitchen except a cold mug of tea and the contents of Jane's wallet. She put the mug in the sink, turned off the light and went back upstairs hoping to sleep.

Jane stretched. Muscles protested but he was surprised at how rested he felt. The smell of coffee told him Lisbon was up. He sat up and blinked the sleep away. He wandered into the kitchen and found Lisbon having toast with her coffee. She wore dress pants, a nice blouse, and a cardigan.

"Morning." He assembled the makings of tea.

She looked up. "Hey, Jane. You're–" she examined his face, "looking rested. Sleep well?"

"I did. Punching bag wore me out." A wry smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. "Don't expect me to make a habit of it."

"I'm not _that_ optimistic."

He eyed her clothing and asked, "What's the occasion?" as he seated himself at the table.

"Sunday. Mass."

After a moment, "Mind if I join you?"

She looked at him warily, eyebrows drawn. "Why? You'd behave, right?"

"Just because. Despite my skepticism I wouldn't disrespect others by being disruptive."

Her eyebrows rose at 'disrespect.' _Yeah, because respect is your big thing._ She bit her bottom lip, then said, "Okay. I'm leaving in 15 minutes."

He reassembled his wallet, sipped the last of his tea and rose. "Be down shortly." He took the stairs two at a time.

Jane followed Lisbon into the soaring, stately, vaguely gothic structure. She dipped her fingers in the holy water and made the sign of the cross. They paused, eyes adjusting to the dim interior. Stained glass glittered like jewels though it didn't admit much light. There was a hushed murmur of parishioners settling in before mass started. They found a pew near the back and Lisbon motioned Jane to enter before her.

Jane let the calm ritual wash over him without focusing on the words. He was surprised when Lisbon rose and went forward to take holy communion and realized that was why she had him enter the pew first. He wondered when she'd had time to go to confession. He did pay attention to the sermon which focused on the importance of compassion and, predictably, folding that value into everyday life.

Father Gliroy stood at the door to share a few words with worshipers as they left. He knew everyone by name and exhibited a lively interest in each. Lisbon introduced Jane when it was their turn. Jane had the disquieting feeling the Father already knew of him by name. A few pleasantries later and they were in queue of cars leaving the parking lot.

Lisbon pulled out and merged with the light Sunday traffic. Sparing a glance, she asked, "Get anything out of that?"

He shrugged. "Predictable sermon, but a worthwhile reminder." Warming to the topic, "I lost belief in the supernatural aspects when I was a kid. Still, there's value in thinking about what it means to be a good person." He gazed absently at the passing scenery. "Used to like mass in Latin before every church switched." He grinned. "Never understood it, of course, but I liked the cadence and mystery."

Astonished, "When did you attend mass?"

His smug glance annoyed her. " _Think_ , Lisbon. My carnival was mostly Irish Catholic. –Stopped going when I was ten." Amusement fell away when he added, "After my mom died of leukemia."

"Oh." She looked straight at the road, kicking herself for blundering into something sad and personal.

He shifted in his seat. "What's the plan for the rest of the day?"

"Target practice. It's been a while and it's a nice drive."

"Work off frustration?"

"Keep up skills."

"Mmm." After a moment, "If you wouldn't mind, I'd like to go to my storage locker."

That earned him a concerned frown. "Jane, that's six hours each way. I don't think going back is such a hot idea."

He blinked and shook his head, realizing she didn't know. "It's local. I stored some ... things here in Sacramento after I joined the CBI." He added helpfully, "It's on the way to the shooting range."

"Oh." She thought of his disassembled wallet on the table. "Sure."

Jane settled back. "Let's make an afternoon of it. If we buy sandwiches we can eat at that park on the way back."

Lisbon changed clothes and got two additional firearms from her townhouse. Jane's eyebrows rose in surprise until she explained that guns, like all mechanical things, benefitted from regular use. _She_ would benefit from target practice with a rifle as well as the handguns. A quick stop at the deli and they were on their way.

The storage locker required only a detour onto a frontage road from the expressway. Lisbon waited in the SUV. The sign advertised both lockers for general storage and humidity-and-temperature-controlled lockers for sensitive materials. The special lockers were connected to the office building and entered from inside. Jane entered the office but didn't reappear. _Not a regular locker then. His house is empty. Can't see him bringing furniture up here. Oh._ She looked away in realization. – _Personal stuff then._ Jane reappeared. When he absently patted his jacket over his billfold she knew she was right. _Photo or letter that got ruined by the water._ Neither chose to comment and they were back on the expressway in five minutes.

"Jane."

He glanced over, drawn out of his ruminations. "Hmm?"

Her gaze never strayed from the road. "After we left your house, do you remember what you said?"

"Friday is a blur." _Except for opening my bedroom door_ , he silently amended. "What did I say?"

She licked her lips, not even glancing his way, "When I asked what you wanted to do, you said you wanted to go 'home. Sacramento,'" she replied, slightly emphasizing the last two words.

"A-n-d-?"

"Is – is that how you think of Sacramento?" she asked delicately. "Now, I mean?"

He exhaled before responding. "Y-e-a-h... This is 'home' as much as any place." He looked out the passenger window. "We moved to Malibu a little before Charlotte was born." He pressed his lips then added, "I've been in Sacramento almost as long by now."

"Oh." She added awkwardly, "Just curious."

Jane spent the last half hour of the ride staring sightlessly out the passenger window. The week was a confused jumble, but Lisbon was easy enough to understand. _After almost drowning I'm someone who doesn't know her, someone she barely recognizes from the jackass I used to be. Then I tell her I'm quitting. Leaving. No wonder she needs reassurance._ He promised himself he'd do more to put that to rest. He had no reason to leave. Were he honest with himself, the SCU was the only reason he had to be anywhere – aside from his obligation to avenge his family.

Gifted with a perfect fall day, the outdoor shooting range was a treat for both. She was delighted to find it deserted on Sunday morning of a holiday weekend. Ever the observer, Jane enjoyed watching the exhibition of skill. He shuddered when Lisbon offered to teach him. He couldn't deny his colleagues' need for guns in law-enforcement. But killing Timothy Carter mere feet away, by his own hand, had only heightened his revulsion. Before she was done he surprised them both.

"Lisbon." The noise-canceling headsets allowed speech while blocking the ear-shattering sound of gunfire.

She looked toward him. "What, Jane?"

Tentatively, "Maybe I will take you up on learning."

Lisbon finished the clip. Though they were alone, she called "Cold" out of habit to let others know she was no longer shooting, and pulled off the ear protectors. She turned to fully face him. Her gray-green eyes were unfathomed pools that drank in his every expression. "You seriously want to learn?" She didn't ask why.

He pulled off his own headset. His Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed and roughly cleared his throat. "Lot of dangerous situations on cases. You've said I should know more in case I grab a gun–" Sheriff Hardy flashed through their thoughts, "–in a scuffle. ... Or something."

Timothy Carter hung between them. And Red John. He felt he was drowning in those bottomless green pools. An endless moment later she turned away and set her Glock aside. She opened the gun case and took out a Sig Sauer, like the one Jane used to kill Carter. "Come over here and we'll start."

Lisbon was patient and thorough. Assessing his nervousness even being _near_ her firearms she started with basic facts. "Guns can be used for good. They can be misused for harm, just like other things – cars, for instance–" she momentarily looked stricken at that brutal truth from her past. "You and everyone around you are safer if you know how to properly handle a gun." She faced him. "Like any tool, know how it functions and you can use it safely. First rule: Never – _never_ – point a gun at anything you do not intend to shoot. Second: Keep your finger off the trigger unless you are ready to fire. Next: Double check that it's unloaded before cleaning, storing, or otherwise handling a firearm." She looked anxious but plowed ahead anyhow. "I doubt you or I will have a gun around kids, but it should be locked up, _unloaded_. Bullets should be stored elsewhere." She rushed on, away from that painful topic. "Contrary to a zillion bad TV shows, a gun is highly _un_ likely to go off merely by dropping it, though that just underscores the wisdom of it being unloaded most of the time. And don't get me started on the idiocy of firing into the air to celebrate because–"

"–bullets fall to the earth with the same deadly velocity," Jane finished, grinning at the basic physics of it.

"Contrary to other stupid TV examples, a bullet isn't always stopped when it hits something – a person, a car door, even a wall. Depending on a bunch of things, a bullet can travel a mile after it's fired." Jane swallowed, his mouth and throat dry as he realized the enormous irresponsibility of putting three slugs into Carter in a crowded mall. The grim set of Lisbon's mouth told him she shared the thought.

She turned and pressed a button to bring the target to them and mount a new sheet. Her target sheet showed a frayed group of holes upon holes clustered in the center, except for one hole just outside the center circle from her first shot. She sent it back out, stopping it much closer than it had been before.

"Twenty-one feet – typical distance for close-range practice, 'specially for newbies."

She drew Jane to the firing line and positioned his stance. "Feet apart, shoulder width, right slightly in front of the left." She turned his torso head-on to the target. "A two-handed grip gives you greater control." She called, "Hot," and positioned his hands on the gun. "Don't choke up on the grip. Catch the skin between thumb and forefinger in the slide and you'll regret it."

Jane stood as positioned, muscles tense, hands trembling slightly. Lisbon shook her head. Softly, "You have to relax. It's just a tool. Com'on." Biofeedback and several deep breaths helped him shed most of the tension.

Thirty minutes later, Jane had learned the rudiments. His shots not only hit the target – it was surprisingly easy to miss entirely, even so close – but were consistently grouped near the center.

He relinquished the gun to her while calling out, "Cold."

She cautioned, "Best to wait till you're not even touching the gun." She released the magazine and verified there wasn't a bullet left in the gun. Then she packed up the weapons in the gun cases. Approvingly, "That was good for your first time, Jane." She looked at him skeptically, "You never had anyone teach you before?"

"Eh. Grew up firing the air guns at the carnival games."

Serious, "Takes practice no matter what. You have a good eye. With your biofeedback skills, you could become a good shot. _I_ feel better knowing you have some basic training when you work cases with the team."

He tipped his head noncommittally. "Better to know something than not. But I'm happy leaving that aspect of law-enforcement to you four."

It was forty minutes to the park where they would stop for lunch. Jane half-dozed, his interrupted night and the tension of handling a gun leaving him drained. The irony didn't escape him. The morning's sermon urging compassion was followed by an afternoon spent practicing a skill that was the antithesis. His lips unconsciously tightened as he thought about Teresa helping him. _She knows why I'm interested. The better to kill_ _him_ _, my dear. She's doing it anyhow, even after Carter._

Teresa's reaction after he killed Timothy Carter was a revelation. They'd argued years ago. She insisted she'd arrest Red John and prevent him from exacting his revenge. He vowed to cut Red John open and let him bleed out slowly. She hadn't known he brought Winter's gun to the mall. She had stationed Cho and Rigsby to arrest Red John if he appeared. _She was terrified when she visited me in jail. Thought I'd finally lost it and killed a random guy. Thank god they turned out to be murdering nightmares themselves. Poor Debbi Lupin, wonder if she's recovered? – After all that, Teresa doesn't hate me._ Unbidden, the matchmaker case from a year ago came to mind. _'Someone who knows the worst side of me and still...'_ He didn't have the heart to finish and roused himself as Lisbon exited the expressway.

She pulled into the soothing green natural area. It, too, was nearly deserted. They took the cooler to a picnic table under the trees and unloaded the food: Sandwiches, potato salad, sodas, and cookies. Their repast was achingly pleasant and normal – a reprieve from hell. He felt guilty about taking a break from his quest, but not enough to cut it short. Next week would be soon enough to resume hunting a monster. They exchanged small talk and disagreed over trivia for the pleasure of their gentle jousting. More than once he caught her with an uncharacteristically soft expression and realized how shaken she must have been because of the drowning. He wryly admitted it was more than a little disturbing for him as well.

They finished and started gathering their food wrappers.

"Hey. What's that?" she asked, pointing to a bright orange fluttering in a thorny bush.

Jane frowned and walked over to get a better look. "Oh."

Lisbon took a few more steps then abruptly stopped. "What?" Her face scrunched in distaste. "Who would do something like that?" she asked as she approached the bush. The breeze ruffled the bright orange feathers of a small bird impaled on a three-inch thorn. Unmistakably dead.

The corners of Jane's mouth turned down. "Ever hear of a shrike?"

She shook her head, then hunched her shoulders as she noticed a frog impaled a foot away from the bird.

In pedantic, encyclopedic mode he said, "It's an honorary raptor – a bird of prey even though it lacks true raptor talons. It has the unpleasant habit of storing its kills on barbed wire or thorns. ... Sometimes when the prey is alive."

Amazed and appalled, "A _bird_ does this?"

He nodded. "They're also called butcher birds – for obvious reasons."

His voice sounded odd and she turned to look at him. Jane wore the perfectly expressionless mask she often noticed when they were on Red John cases. She murmured, "Red John bird?"

Jane shook himself back to the present and took a breath. "A natural thought, but that slanders the shrike. However unpleasant, the shrike kills to eat, like all carnivores. Doesn't compare to a ... _thing_ that kills for pleasure alone."

The ride home was quiet. Lisbon spent the evening working on files she'd brought home. Jane browsed her bookcase till he found a book to occupy him for a few hours. When he went up to shower she looked and found Jane had chosen _The Sociopath Next Door_.


	11. Chapter 11 - L & J POV: Acceptance

**Chapter 11: Acceptance**

Jane snuggled into the couch cushions with the throw drawn under his chin. The room was slowly brightening as dawn prevailed over night. It had been years since he'd slept well and he reveled in the feeling of well-being from a good night's sleep.

The faint scent of vanilla penetrated thoughts still thick and fuzzy with sleep. _Good for stress, depression ... maybe an aphrodisiac._ Meandering thoughts followed random connections. _Loved the smell when Sam baked ... always surprised at the sharp taste ... the alcohol in the extract?_ He bunched up the throw and buried his face in it. _Blanket smells like vanilla ... marketing ploy? ... wouldn't it would wash out?_ He shifted position at a pleasant stirring in his groin. _Vanilla ... Lisbon's couch. ... Ah. Shampoo maybe?_ His eyebrow twitched. _Uh-uh, hair smells like cinnamon. ... body wash?_ The sound of a shower followed and he was overwhelmed by the image: Teresa, naked in billowing steam. Head thrown back, eyes closed, ruby lips parted. Water cascading over milky skin accented by sable hair and rose nipples. Desire and arousal surged. He had to picture a grisly murder scene to chill the reaction.

For years after his family's murder he had no interest in sex. Even when he indulged in the timeless dance of flirting and seducing, overwhelming guilt short-circuited any chance of consummation. It had with the gorgeous grieving widow ... later proved murderess. With Erica Flynn. He frowned, worried at the thought that she, too, was a murderer. Kristina Frye. This was different. He was literally enveloped in Lisbon's home. And in Teresa's affections if he let himself think about it. The pull of connection, normalcy, happiness, home, ... love ... was nearly irresistible.

It scared the hell out of him.

He'd kept the smiley face to crush any thought of moving on before avenging their deaths. Yet time, forged friendships, and worthwhile work made that harder with every new year. Giving up would be easy. Lisbon wanted him to, especially after the nightmare of his murder trial. She could be the future he'd despaired of ever again having.

To his horror he had momentarily considered the offer made by Timothy Carter, Red John's proxy. Later, Jane figured Red John had listened in but any transmitter had vanished with Carter's revolver. Red John wanted to "quit." "Retire." His proposition was more powerful than that of any prostitute: Red John would quit, leave – _and Jane would be free to have a future with Lisbon._ Jane shuddered. Trusting his future, his Lisbon, and – god help them – maybe a family to Red John's promise would be madness.

Jane told himself it was mere physical reaction to a beautiful woman. _And she is,_ he thought wistfully despite himself _._ However pleasant and necessary the weekend had been, this _had_ to be the last day and the last indulgence of this sort. It would be insane to count on Red John leaving him and, infinitely more important, – Lisbon – unharmed. And regardless of Red John's overture, abandoning his quest would destroy him. He filled his lungs with Lisbon's scent then tossed the throw aside. He stretched and rose, reluctantly in control once again.

Lisbon turned restlessly in bed, acutely aware that one Patrick Jane lay sleeping in her townhouse beyond her bedroom door. After the fugue there was no way she could leave Jane alone to grieve and brood in that damned, depressing attic or equally depressing motel room. That did nothing to salve the exquisite torture of this domestic interlude.

She had bought furniture for her first apartment when she started working at the SFPD. Lisbon told herself the bedroom set _came with_ a queen-sized bed even though a single or double was ample space for just her. True, she'd fled from Greg and the stultifying, traditional future he planned. But her determination to succeed in a challenging profession didn't silence a quiet hope to have a family as well some day. That hope faded as her 30's overtook her 20's. Predictably, men outside law enforcement were put off, alarmed, by the danger inherent in her job. She was blind-sided by the reactions of fellow cops. Their keen appreciation of the risks was amplified by professional competition and even jealousy. Men in law enforcement were rarely in the vanguard of social change. Most thought she should _marry_ a cop rather than be a cop herself. Cho and Rigsby were different, self-selected by being willing to work for a woman. Of course, anyone who worked for her was automatically off limits. Which left ... no one.

Patrick Jane was offered a job at the CBI on the force of sheer brilliance. Despite serious misgivings, she accepted Minelli's suggestion to add the shattered survivor to her team. Gradually, unintentionally, unconsciously, Jane had gone from her brilliant-but-enormously-irritating consultant to valued team member, to friend and more than friend.

After Hardy, after McTeer's murder, after the bomb vest not even she believed the threadbare explanation that she tolerated Jane because "he closes cases." She loved him. Was _in love_ with him. If pushed, she'd guess – hope? – the feelings were reciprocated though she never knew exactly where she stood. Was there room alongside Angela and Charlotte? _Could_ he bear being that vulnerable again after their devastating murders? Was she _sure_ their relationship was based on more than help in hunting Red John? Being in love with Patrick Jane was akin to loving someone with a deadly illness. His brilliance was terrifyingly scant protection against a gun or Red John's knife. Even if he prevailed, what then? His legal tour de force after Carter couldn't be repeated.

Mere thought of the trial nauseated her. The death penalty was off the table when they found Debbi Lupin in that basement torture chamber. But the months Ardilles spent preparing his case against Jane were agonizing nonetheless. Jane was banned from the CBI, of course. She saw little of him once she returned to work after physical therapy. When she did see him he was preoccupied and distant. Her every night was filled with nightmares of the death penalty (her subconscious was flagrantly unconcerned with fact or logic), of Jane broken by years in prison, of Jane beaten, raped, dying at the hands of uncounted inmates imprisoned because of him.

It was irrelevant. She loved him. Would always love him. Even if the personal life she ached for with him could never be. Even if he would never be on _this_ side of her bedroom door, filling the empty space in her bed and heart.

Lisbon sighed and rubbed away an incipient headache. One more day and things would go back to normal – _had_ to go back for sanity's sake. She rose tiredly, gathered her clothes and went in to shower.

It was awkward for the first time since he recovered his memory. The banter during breakfast was flat, their smiles unconvincing as they studiously ignored the impending end to their shared weekend.

Lisbon cast about for small talk. "Like the book you were reading?" She hoped Jane wasn't reading it because of Wainwright.

Jane eyed her and smiled. "I'm not wasting time worrying about Wainwright." She frowned that he read her thoughts so easily. He explained, "Anything psychology is an obvious connection to Wainwright. We both know his opinion of me and that you worry about it."

She snorted, "And you don't?"

He gave her a sunny smile. "Nope. I only care about the opinions of people I respect."

She opened her mouth, but could only say, "Oh," unsure if that included her. Then warmth swept through her when she remembered Jane asking if she thought he was anti-social after their first case under Wainwright.

Jane moved his breakfast plate away and sipped tea before getting back to her question. "The book's somewhat interesting. I'm familiar with the sociopathic traits highlighted by the author, of course." Lisbon quelled her reflexive negative reaction to what sounded like boasting. Jane really _was_ knowledgeable. Focused on the book, he didn't notice. "The research she cites on environmental contributions versus the heritable component – that's new. Surprising that childhood abuse and attachment disorder are _not_ implicated..." He drifted off as he followed that thought.

 _Makes sense. Jane picks up a lot by observing, but wouldn't know the academic research._ After a moment, "Jane, penny for 'em?"

He focused on her, jarred back to the present. "Sorry. Of course I want to relate the material to Red John." He looked grim for a moment. "Lack of conscience and severely limited emotional capacity don't capture everything I see, though."

Animated, as she gathered the dishes, "That's what I thought. There's an explanation–"

"–Which is?" He rose to help load the dishwasher.

"What if it's several disorders? Psychopathy _and_ megalomania, for instance?"

He waggled his head back and forth, temporizing. "Mmm. Where does that get you? Piling on a grab bag of diagnoses is more guessing than understanding."

She deliberately bumped her shoulder against his when she passed. Archly, "Of course there's an _easy_ explanation."

He stopped. Eyebrows raised he looked at her skeptically. "Oh?"

"Evil."

He huffed, "And now we plunge into the supernatural."

"Does it matter? At some point diagnostic categories are academic. Red John is malicious, destructive, sadistic, malignant. 'Evil' is a good working description in my book."

He demurred, "It helps to understand how he thinks. He has delusions of grandeur, an exalted opinion of himself. He has followers. Cloaks his ... butchery in some larger purpose. My god, Lisbon, Carter even talked about 'making a positive change in the world.'" He abruptly stopped. He'd revealed more than intended.

She faced him. Deadly serious, "Thought you were going to _share_ information so _we_ can catch the sonofabitch?"

A muscle flexed in his jaw. Curtly, "It was Carter, not Red John–"

"–You know damn well Red John dictated everything Carter said. Spill."

After a moment of stony silence. "Most of it was personal – goading, cat and mouse. Two things might be useful. He said he wanted to quit, get a new face, new life. And – and what I just said. He denies he's a monster, wants to 'make a positive contribution,'" he related with painful irony.

She took a deep breath and consciously relented. "The idea he wants anything 'positive' is ... unbelievable. Could explain how he attracts followers." Jane nodded, acknowledging that was relevant to the team's work. She tilted her head, eyes narrowed, "Do you believe he wants to quit?"

He stood stock still as he considered the disturbing possibility. Was their investigation, his quest for vengeance, prolongnig the very butchery they vowed to stop? He swallowed. "No." Intensely, "Someone who's committed dozens of brutal murders doesn't just change his mind. He might pause, take a break. But sooner or later he'd kill again."

Softly, "I agree." She deliberately regrouped. "Um, I have a bunch of errands. Come with, or–"

"–I'll come." He much preferred her company to obsessing over Carter and Red John.

The morning was spent running errands. Things finally felt normal in the SUV, product of years of companionable company driving to and from crime scenes. By one o'clock Jane looked longingly as they passed restaurants and deli's.

"Lisbon." She glanced over. "Is lunch on your list or are we on the starvation plan?"

"Suck it up, Jane. Next stop, Cho's." At his questioning look she expanded. "Bought a house, remember? It's finished and he invited us."

"Oh." Jane assumed the invitation was extended during the fugue. He was silent for the 20 minutes it took to drive there.

Lisbon parked on the quiet, tree-lined street. The houses were solid but old enough that rehabbing made sense for people who wanted modern interiors with the convenience of living close in. Jane stood next to the SUV and scanned the surrounding neighborhood.

"Cho chose well." Most houses had already been renovated. The city had resurfaced the streets and repaired sidewalks. Newly xeriscaped public areas were lush even after a hot, dry summer.

Cho answered the door dressed in a black tee, jeans and sneakers. Jane plastered on a big smile as he stepped in. The inside was as different from the quiet, solid exterior as night and day. The interior was subtly Asian and sleekly modern, done in a palette of taupes, griege, and cool white, set off with custom charcoal woodwork. Cerused oak floors kept it light. Vivid teal and magenta accents made it interesting.

"Cho, this is great," Lisbon said, moved to uncharacteristic enthusiasm.

Jane's stock smile transformed into an appreciative grin. "You have hidden talents, my friend." Lisbon noticed Jane blink, as though surprised by his own words. Jane had wandered to the living room walls where he examined the artwork, a grouping of martial arts certificates, and striking photographs. "Photographer, too, I see."

Cho resigned himself to Jane knowing more about him no matter what. "Beer? Soda? Tea?"

After Lisbon and Jane had their beverages he showed them the rest of the house. The upstairs held three generous bedrooms. The kitchen, formal dining room, living room, and study were on the first floor. An exercise room and utility space occupied the walk-out basement. Sacramento streets had been raised long ago to prevent flooding. His first floor was street-level, but like many buildings in the area, a full-height level below was necessary. Cho led them to the back yard after the tour. Jane whistled at the elaborate stone patio.

"Elise's friend does stonework. Worth it."

"I'll say," Lisbon echoed. Having rehabbed the place, everything reflected deliberate choices by Cho. She smiled to herself at how the house mirrored the character of her reserved, talented, efficient second in command.

Jane eyed the mound of burgers, chicken, and sausage waiting to be grilled. "Who else is–"

They turned at the sound of doors opening. "Van Pelt, Rigsby," Lisbon welcomed. Cho nodded and turned to light the grill.

"The rest of the estimable team, of course," Jane said, big smile back.

Lisbon was struck by the smiling, expansive Jane. _'I only care about the opinions of people I respect.' Of course. He's nervous meeting the team after being laid bare during the fugue. Oh, Jane. Have more faith._

Rigsby and Van Pelt awkwardly paused, taking Jane in. Lisbon was reminded of cats meeting, undecided whether it was friend or foe. After a second Van Pelt stepped forward with a warm smile and surprised Jane with a hug.

"I'm so glad you're back, Jane."

Rigsby even patted him on the shoulder, more familiar than usual in his relief that the memory thing was over. Rigsby uncomfortably stepped away. "Where do you want the food, Cho?"

"Cold stuff on the table." Rigsby unloaded the cold food plus a stack of foil-wrapped cobs of corn. Van Pelt set out paper plates, plastic-ware, and cups. Lisbon hurried to the SUV and returned with the cake she'd bought and the three-inch looseleaf binder from the CBI.

To Jane's relief, he sensed no ill will, despite having been an ass during the fugue, despite taking $38,000. _Lisbon must have told them I returned it._ Jane brought the corn over to Cho by the grill. Jane turned to rejoin the others.

Cho stopped him with a quiet, "Jane." Jane turned back. "I owe you an apology."

"For?"

"What I said at the Wilcox house."

Jane shrugged, disinclined to talk about anything that happened during the fugue. "Don't remember, doesn't matter," he said lightly.

"I said you were a hustler. I was wrong."

That garnered a puzzled look. Jane took a breath, "No you weren't."

Cho put the tongs down and faced him. "You came back after taking the money, _wanted_ to be called on it. A hustler would be two states away."

Jane swallowed and looked away. Tongue-tied for once, "Uh, okay." He drifted off to join the three agents sitting at the table. He half-listened in till he noticed the CBI binder on top of the low stone wall. Curiosity piqued, he went over and flipped open the cover. It was a scrapbook of the SCU's cases. He smirked at the realization that Lisbon had been keeping one despite her insistence that CBI senior agents didn't compete. His expression morphed into appreciation as he idly leafed through the pages. The three inch binder was full to bursting with newspaper articles, commendations, grateful letters, and monthly memos recording the SCU's top close and conviction rates. Jane had joined six months after Lisbon took her position and he'd worked nearly all the cases. More than a few letters mentioned him by name. He looked up to find Lisbon's gaze trained on him. She nodded and calmly returned to her conversation with the other agents.

Everyone enjoyed the afternoon. The agents held their breaths when Elise arrived, unexpectedly bringing her five-year-old and seven-year old nieces. Jane swallowed hard then proceeded to amuse the kids with sleight of hand and teasing. That evening Jane repacked his away suitcase and had Lisbon drop him off at the CBI.

On Tuesday Lisbon had Cho take $38,000 down to Evidence to add to the S&L robbery case. The SCU somehow "forgot" to file the additional money on Friday. Lisbon knew Wainwright would send a memo admonishing her to handle evidence more carefully. With the Wilcox family's hotel bill and take out delivery receipts, all the money was accounted for. Wilcox's accusations against Jane would be ignored as slander for Jane's role in the arrest.

She received a bouquet of French blue hydrangeas just as Cho was leaving her office. He paused and Rigsby and Van Pelt looked in as Lisbon opened the attached card. Jane was conspicuously absent. Van Pelt was brave enough to ask.

"Flowers-" Lisbon answered. She opened the card and straightened in surprise, "-Every week for a year." She read the card, "'Thanks for keeping me from making a big mistake.'"

When the case work was wrapped up an hour later, Cho found an envelope in place of his bookmark in the novel he was reading.

"What's that?" Rigsby asked.

Cho opened the envelope. "Two season's passes to the San Fran Giants. And a note."

Rigsby frowned when his laconic friend stopped. "Which says?"

"'Thanks for putting up with me.'"

"Signed?"

"No."

Even though it had all ended well – Cho told him and Van Pelt about putting the missing money in Evidence – Rigsby remained annoyed at being out money because of their light-fingered colleague. It wasn't till mid-morning that he found a sealed envelope in his stash of snack food.

"Cool!" he exclaimed looking inside.

At Cho's inquiring glance he said, "All expenses paid voucher for two for a week at that fancy resort we visited for a case, you know the one with the gigolo? Good indefinitely."

Van Pelt wasn't at her desk and Cho commented acerbically, "Good. Gives you and Van Pelt time to get back together." He ignored Rigsby's frown. "What else?"

"Sixty-three bucks!" He grinned, as happy about the $63 as the voucher worth many times more. "And a note." He read, "'Thanks for putting up with me. And for the loan.' Not signed."

"'Course not." Cho returned to his book. His lips quirked just a fraction.

Van Pelt was disappointed not to get anything, but rationalized it away since she hadn't been tricked, or pick-pocketed, or groped. After lunch she was surprised when Security brought up a mysterious 30" x 30" flat box for her.

"What is it, Grace?"

"Give me a minute, Wayne. Let me read the card first. Says, 'We may disagree on the inspiration, but the result is magnificent. Thanks for being a friend.' I have no idea what it is."

Cho, "Open it already."

"It's really heavy." She pulled out what appeared to be a picture and unfolded the bubble wrap. "Oh my gosh! It's beautiful!" The gift was a scale replica of the main stained-glass rosette window of the Notre Dame Cathedral.

An hour later, Jane quietly came down from his aerie for tea. The commotion had died down. His colleagues – his friends – were busy with work. He sipped his tea, satisfied.

FINI


End file.
